BUILDETH 
HER 
OUSE 


ILL  LEVINGTO: 
COMFORT 


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If,  my  friend,  this  hot>k  you  borrow, 

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Please  remember  that  "Tomorrow" 

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Never  comes—  return  "Today" 

I 

S 

1 

Lest,  by  chance,  it  go  astray. 

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o 

0 

And  I  would  thank  you  not  to  lend, 

! 

5 

Although  he  be  your  dearest  friend. 

0 
1 

1 

For  many  books  have  passed  my  door 

0 

0 
5 

And  left  me  to  return  no  more. 

5 

5 

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1 

0 

No.     44     JOHN  M.  METHEANY 

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fl 

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•I- 

0 

THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


She  Buildeth  Her  House 


SECOND  EDITION 


A  GREAT 


ROUTLEDGE  RIDES 
ALONE 

Bj  WILL   LEVINGTON   COMFORT 

"Three  such  magnificent  figures 
(Routledge,  Noreen,  and  Rawder)  have 
seldom  before  appeared  together  in  fiction. 
For  knowledge,  energy,  artistic  conception, 
and  literary  skill,  it  is  easily  the  book  of  the 
day—  A  GREAT  NOVEL,  full  of  a  sub 
lime  conception,  one  of  the  few  novels  that 
are  as  ladders  from  heaven  to  earth." 

—  San  Francisco  Argonaut. 

With  Ctltrtd  Frontispiece 

By  MARTIN  JUSTICE 

Cloth,  with  Colored  Inset,  $1.50 

1.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  PHILADELPHIA 


HE   REACHED   THE   CURBING   OF    THE   OLD    WELL    WITH    HIS    BURDEN 

Page  S17 


She  Buildeth  Her 
House 

By 

Will  Levington  Comfort 

Author  of  "  Routledge  Rides  Alone,"  etc 


With  a  Frontispiece  By 
Martin  Justice 


Philadelphia  &  London 

J.  B.  Lippincott   Company 

1911 
•»«  »»=  ==»=« 


COPYRIGHT.  XQXX.  BY   ].  1.  LIPPINCOTT    COMPAXT 


Published  Kay,  19x1 


PRINTED  BT  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

AT    TBB     WASHINGTON     8QUARB     PRESt 

PHILADELPHIA,  U.S.A. 


A  BOUGH  BROUGHT  WITH  SINGING 
TO  THE  FEET  OF 

HER 

WHO  CROSSED  THE  SANDS  ALONE 

IN  ADORING  PILGRIMAGE 

FOR  HER  SON 


786566 


Contents 


FIRST  CHAPTER. 

PAULA  ENCOUNTERS  THE  REMARKABLE  EYES  OP  HER 
FIRST  GIANT,  AND  HEARKENS  TO  THE  SECOND,  THUN 
DERING  AFAR-OFP ...  -  — » . .  9 

SECOND  CHAPTER. 

PAULA  CONTEMPLATES  THE  WALL  OP  A  HUNDRED 
WINDOWS,  AND  THE  MYSTERIOUS  MADAME  NESTOR 
CALLS  AT  THE  ZOROASTER 24 

THIRD  CHAPTER. 

CERTAIN  DEVELOPING  INCIDENTS  ARE  CAUGHT  INTO 
THB  CURRENT  OP  NARRATIVE — ALSO  A  SUPPER  WITH 
REIPFERSCHEID 41 

FOURTH  CHAPTER. 

PAULA  ENCOUNTERS  HER  ADVERSARY  WHO  TURNS 
PROPHET  AND  TELLS  OP  A  STARRY  CHILD  SOON  TO  BB 
BORN -,..>... .„.„..  57 

FIFTH  CHAPTER. 

PAULA  is  INVOLVED  IN  THE  FURIOUS  HISTORY  OP 
SELMA  CROSS  AND  WRITES  A  LETTER  TO  QUENTIN 
CHARTER ...»„.... . .  69 

SIXTH  CHAPTER. 

PAULA  is  CALLED  TO  PARLOR  "F"  OP  THE  MAIDSTONE 

WHERE  THE  BEYOND-DEVIL  AWAITS  WITH  OUT- 
STRETCHED  ARMS ....  «»  „-,..,  .,.  ..  8l 

SEVENTH  CHAPTER. 

PAULA  BEGINS  TO  SEE  MORE  CLEARLY  THROUGH 
MADAME  NESTOR'S  REVELATIONS,  AND  WITNESSES 
A  BROADWAY  ACCIDENT „....„  93 

EIGHTH  CHAPTER. 

PAULA  MAKES  SEVERAL  DISCOVERIES  IN  THE  CHAR 
TER  HEART-COUNTRY,  AND  is  DELIGHTED  BY  His 
LETTERS  TO  THE  SKYLARK 99 

5 


6  Contents 


NINTH  CHAPTER. 

PAULA  is  DRAWN  INTO  THE  SELMA  CROSS  PAST  AND 
is  BRAVELY  WOOED  THROUGH  FURTHER  MESSAGES 
FROM  THE  WEST „...,., ...  no 

TENTH  CHAPTER. 

PAULA  SEES  SELMA  CROSS  IN  TRAGEDY,  AND  IN  HER 
OWN  APARTMENT  NEXT  MORNING  is  GIVEN  A  REALITY 
TO  PLAY 119 

ELEVENTH  CHAPTER. 

PAULA  is  SWEPT  DEEP  INTO  A  DESOLATE  COUNTRY  BY 
THE  HIGH  TIDE,  BUT  NOTES  A  QUICK  CHANGE  IN 
SELMA  CROSS 138 

TWELFTH  CHAPTER. 

CERTAIN  ELEMENTS  FOR  THE  CHARTER  CRUCIBLE, 
AND  His  MOTHER'S  PILGRIMAGE  ACROSS  THE  SANDS 
ALONE  TO  MECCA 152 

THIRTEENTH  CHAPTER. 

"No  MAN  CAN  ENTER  INTO  A  STRONG  MAN'S  HOUSE, 
AND  SPOIL  His  GOODS,  EXCEPT  HE  WILL  FIRST  BIND 
THE  STRONG  MAN" , ...........  160 

FOURTEENTH  CHAPTER. 

THE  SINGING  OF  THE  SKYLARK  CEASES  ABRUPTLY; 
CHARTER  HASTENS  EAST  TO  FIND  A  QUEER  MESSAGE 
AT  THE  GRANVILLE 179 

FIFTEENTH  CHAPTER. 

QUENTIN  CHARTER  AND  SELMA  CROSS  JOIN  ISSUE  ON 
A  NEW  BATTLE-GROUND,  EACH  LEAVING  THE  FIELD 
WITH  OPEN  WOUNDS 194 

SIXTEENTH  CHAPTER. 

PAULA,  FINDING  THAT  BOTH  GIANTS  HAVE  ENTERED 
HER  CASTLE,  RUSHES  IN  TUMULT  INTO  THE  NIGHT..  213 

SEVENTEENTH  CHAPTER. 

PAULA  SAILS  INTO  THE  SOUTH,  SEEKING  THE  HOLY 
MAN  OP  SAINT  PIERRE,  WHERE  LA  MONTAGNE  PELEB 
GIVES  WARNING 223 

EIGHTEENTH  CHAPTER. 

PAULA  is  INVOLVED  IN  THE  RENDING  FORTUNES  OF 
SAINT  PIERRE  AND  THE  PANTHER  CALLS  WITH  NEW 
YORK  MAIL 233 


Contents 


NINETEENTH  CHAPTER. 

QUENTIN  CHARTER  is  ATTRACTED  BY  THE  TRAVAIL  OF 
PELEE,  AND  ENCOUNTERS  A  QUEER  FELLOW-VOYAGER  253 

TWENTIETH  CHAPTER. 

CHARTER'S  MIND  BECOMES  THE  ARENA  OP  CONFLICT 
BETWEEN  THE  WYNDAM  WOMAN  AND  SKYLARK  MEM 
ORIES .».,  .,. —  «,.,.„  270 

TWENTY-FIRST  CHAPTER. 

CHARTER  COMMUNES  WITH  THE  WYNDAM  WOMAN,  AND 
CONFESSES  THE  GREAT  TROUBLE  OF  His  HEART  TO 
FATHER  FONTANEL .»•»«««.«».»«.  279 

TWENTY-SECOND  CHAPTER. 

CHARTER  MAKES  A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  THE  CRATERS  OP 
PELEE — ONE  LAST  DAY  DEVOTED  TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF 
OLD  LETTERS 288 

TWENTY-THIRD  CHAPTER. 

CHARTER  AND  STOCK  ARE  CALLED  TO  THE  PRIEST'S 
HOUSE  IN  THE  NIGHT,  AND  THE  WYNDAM  WOMAN 
STAYS  AT  THE  PALMS ...  298 

TWENTY-FOURTH  CHAPTER. 

HAVING  TO  DO  ESPECIALLY  WITH  THE  MORNING  OP 
THE  ASCENSION,  WHEN  THE  MONSTER,  PELEE,  GIVES 
BIRTH  TO  DEATH .«.«».».,.,..  311 

TWENTY-FIFTH  CHAPTER. 

THE  SARAGOSSA  ENCOUNTERS  THE  RAGING  FIRE-MISTS 
FROM  PELEE  EIGHT  MILES  AT  SEA,  BUT  LIVES  TO  SEND 
A  BOAT  ASHORE 318 

TWENTY-SIXTH  CHAPTER. 

PAULA  AND  CHARTER  IN  SEVERAL  SETTINGS  FEEL  THE 
ENERGY  OF  THE  GREAT  GOOD  THAT  DRIVES  THE 
WORLD 331 

TWENTY-SEVENTH  CHAPTER. 

PAULA  AND  CHARTER  JOURNEY  INTO  THE  WEST;  ONE 
HEARS  VOICES,  BUT  NOT  THE  WORDS  OFTEN,  PROM 
RAPTURE'S  ROADWAY „...,..  345 


She  Buildeth  Her  House 


FIRST  CHAPTER 

PAULA   ENCOUNTERS   THE    REMARKABLE    EYES    OF 

HER  FIRST  GIANT,  AND  HEARKENS  TO  THE 

SECOND,  THUNDERING  AFAR-OFF 

PAULA  LINSTER  was  twenty-seven  when  two  invad 
ing  giants  entered  the  country  of  her  heart.  On  the 
same  day,  these  hosts,  each  unconscious  of  the  other, 
crossed  opposite  borders  and  verged  toward  the  pre 
pared  citadel  between  them. 

Reifferscheid,  though  not  one  of  the  giants,  found 
Paula  a  distraction  in  brown,  when  she  entered  his 
office  before  nine  in  the  morning,  during  the  fall  of 
1901.  He  edited  the  rather  distinguished  weekly  book- 
page  of  The  States,  and  had  come  to  rely  upon  her  for 
a  paper  or  two  in  each  issue.  There  had  been  rain 
in  the  night.  The  mellow  October  sunlight  was  strange 
with  that  same  charm  of  maturity  which  adds  a  glow 
of  attraction  to  motherhood.  The  wonderful  autumn 
haze,  which  broods  over  our  zone  as  the  spirit  of  ripen 
ing  grains  and  tinting  fruits,  just  perceptibly  shaded 
the  vivid  sky.  A  sentence  Paula  had  heard  somewhere 
in  a  play,  "  My  God,  how  the  sun  does  shine !  "  appealed 
to  her  as  particularly  fitting  for  New  York  on  such  a 
morning.  Then  in  the  streets,  so  lately  flooded,  the 
brilliant  new-washed  air  was  sweet  to  breathe. 

0 


10  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

Paula  had  felt  the  advisability  the  year  before  of 
adding  somewhat  to  her  income.  Inventory  brought 
out  the  truth  that  not  one  of  her  talents  had  been 
specialized  to  the  point  of  selling  its  product.  She  had 
the  rare  sense  to  distinguish,  however,  between  a  certain 
joyous  inclination  to  write  and  a  marked  ability  for  pro 
ducing  literature;  and  to  recognize  her  own  sound  and 
sharp  appreciation  of  what  was  good  in  the  stirring 
tide  of  books.  Presenting  herself  to  Reifferscheid, 
principally  on  account  of  an  especial  liking  for  the  book- 
page  of  The  States,  she  ne^er  forgot  how  the  big  man 
looked  at  her  that  first  time  over  his  spectacles,  as  if 
turning  her  pages  with  a  sort  of  psychometric  faculty. 
He  found  her  possible  and  several  months  won  her  not 
a  little  distinction  in  the  work. 

Reifferscheid  was  a  fat,  pondrous,  heavy-spectacled 
devourer  of  work.  He  compelled  her  real  admiration — 
"  the  American  St.  Beuve,"  she  called  him,  because  he 
was  so  tireless,  and  because  he  sniffed  genius  from  afar. 
There  was  something  unreservedly  charming  to  her,  in 
his  sense  of  personal  victory,  upon  discovering  great 
ness  in  an  unexpected  source.  Then  he  was  so  big,  so 
common  to  look  at;  kind  as  only  a  bear  of  a  man  can 
be ;  so  wise,  so  deep,  and  with  such  a  big  smoky  factory 
of  a  brain,  full  of  fascinating  crypts.  Subcutaneous 
laughter  that  rested  her  internally  for  weeks  lingered 
about  certain  of  the  large  man's  sayings.  Even  in  the 
auditing  of  her  account,  she  felt  his  kindness. 

"  Now  here  are  some  essays  by  Quentin  Charter — 
a  big  man,  a  young  man  and  a  slow  worker,"  he  said. 
"  Charter's  first  volume  was  a  thunderer.  We  greeted  it 
with  a  whoop  two  years  ago.  Did  you  see  it  ?  " 


The  Remarkable  Eyes  11 

"  No,"  Paula  replied.  "  I  was  too  strong  for  literary 
trifles  then." 

"Anyway,  look  out  for  Charter.  He  didn't  start 
to  appear  until  he  was  an  adult.  He's  been  everywhere, 
read  everything  and  has  a  punch  like  a  projectile.  An 
effective  chap,  this  Charter.  He  dropped  in  to  see  me 
a  few  weeks  after  my  review.  He  confessed  the  critics 
had  made  him  very  glad.  .  .  .  '  I  am  doing  a  second 
book,'  he  confided  to  me.  '  Down  on  my  knees  to  it. 
Work-shop  stripped  of  encomiums;  no  more  dinner 
parties  or  any  of  that  fatness.  Say,  it's  a  queer  thing 
about  making  a  book.  You  never  can  tell  whether 
it's  to  be  a  boy  or  a  girl.'  .  .  .  ." 

Paula  smiled  reservedly. 

"  I  asked  him  what  his  second  book  was  to  be 
about,"  Reifferscheid  went  on.  " '  Women,'  said  he. 
*  How  novel ! '  said  I.  He  grinned  genially.  '  Reiffer 
scheid,'  he  declared,  in  his  snappy  way,  '  women  are 
interesting.  They're  doing  the  thinking  nowadays. 
They're  getting  there.  One  of  these  mornings,  man  will 
wake  up  to  the  fact  that  he's  got  to  be  born  again  to 
get  in  a  class  with  his  wife.  Man  is  mixed  up  with 
altogether  too  much  of  this  down-town  madness. 
Women  don't  want  votes,  public  office,  or  first-hand 
dollars.  They  want  men!'  ...  I  always  remembered 
that  little  bit  of  stuff  from  Charter.  He  says  the  time 
will  come  when  classy  girls  will  get  their  heads  to 
gether  and  evolve  this  ultimatum,  which  will  be  handed 
intact  to  adorers :  '  No,  boys,  we  can't  marry  you.  We 
haven't  any  illusions  about  celibacy.  It  isn't  nice  nor 
attractive,  but  it's  better  than  being  yoked  with  hucksters 
and  peddlers  who  come  up-town  at  night — mental  crip- 


12  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

pies  in  empty  wagons.  Go  away  and  learn  what  life 
means,  what  it  means  to  be  men — what  it  means  to  us 
for  you  to  be  men!  Learn  how  to  live — and  oh,  boys, 
hurry  back ! '  " 

"  Splendid !  "  Paula  exclaimed. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Charter  is  a  full  deck  and  a  joker.  He's 
lived.  He  makes  you  feel  him.  His  years  are  veritable 
campaigns.  He  has  dangled  in  the  vortices  of  human 
action  and  human  passion — and  seemed  to  come  out 
whole ! "  .  .  .  Reifferscheid  chuckled  at  a  memory. 
" '  Women  are  interesting/  Charter  finished  in  his  dry 
fashion.  '  I  just  got  to  them  lately.  I  wish  I  could 
know  them  all.'  " 

"  I  love  the  book  already,"  Paula  said.  Reifferscheid 
laughed  inwardly  at  the  feminine  way  she  held  the 
volume  in  both  hands,  pressing  it  close. 

"  If  s  the  only  book  on  my  table  this  morning  that  I'd 
like  to  read,"  he  added.  "  Therefore  I  give  it  to  you. 
There's  no  fun  in  giving  something  you  don't  want. 
.  .  .  Are  you  going  to  hear  Bellingham  to-night?" 

She  was  conscious  of  an  unaccountable  dislike  at  the 
name,  a  sense  of  inward  chill.  It  was  almost  as  reckon- 
able  as  the  pleasure  she  felt  in  the  work  and  per 
sonality  of  Quentin  Charter. 

"  Who's  Bellingham  ?  "  Paula  swallowed  dryly  after 
the  first  utterance  of  the  name. 

"  Mental  magician.  I  only  mentioned  him,  because 
you  so  seldom  miss  the  unusual,  and  are  so  quick  to  hail 
a  new  cult  or  odd  mental  specimen." 

"  Magician — surely  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  He  comes  rather  stoutly  recommended  as  such," 
Reifferscheid  replied,  "  though  personally  mine  is  more 


The  Remarkable  Eyes  13 

than  a  healthy  skepticism.  There's  a  notice  this  morn 
ing  of  his  lectures.  He  recently  hypnotized  a  man  to 
whom  the  medical  profession  was  afraid  to  administer 
an  anaesthetic — held  him  painless  during  a  long  and 
serious  operation.  Then  Bellingham  is  the  last  word 
in  alchemy,  feminine  emotions,  causes  of  hysteria, 
longevity,  the  proportions  of  male  and  female  in  each 
person ;  also  he  renews  the  vital  principle,  advises  unions, 
makes  you  beautiful,  and  has  esoteric  women's  classes. 
A  Godey's  Ladies'  man.  Some  provincial  husband  will 
shoot  him  presently." 

Paula  took  the  surface  car  home,  because  the  day 
was  so  rare  and  the  crowd  was  still  downward  bent. 
The  morning  paper  contained  an  announcement  of  Quen- 
tin  Charter's  new  book,  and  a  sketch  of  the  author. 
A  strange,  talented  figure,  new  in  letters,  the  article 
said.  The  paragraphs  had  that  fresh  glow  of  a  pub 
lisher's  perennial  high  hope.  Here  was  the  book  of  a 
man  who  had  lived;  who  drew  not  only  upon  art, 
history,  and  philosophy  for  his  prisms  of  thought,  but 
who  had  roamed  and  worked  and  ridden  with  men, 
keeping  a  sensitive  finger  ever  at  the  pulse  of  nature ; 
a  man  who  had  never  in  the  most  insignificant  degree 
lowered  the  import  or  artificially  raised  the  tension  of 
his  work  to  adjust  it  to  the  fancied  needs  of  the  public. 
In  spite  of  the  enthusiastic  phrasing,  everything  about 
Charter  fascinated  her;  even  the  make-up  of  the  unread 
book  in  her  hand,  and  the  sentences  that  gleamed  from 
the  quickly  turned  pages. 

She  had  ridden  many  squares,  when  the  name  of 
Dr.  Bellingham  stood  out  before  her  eyes  in  the  news 
paper.  The  chill  in  her  arteries  was  perceptible  as  before, 


14  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

when  Reifferscheid  spoke  the  name.  It  was  as  the  latter 
had  said — the  famous  healer  and  telepathist  was  to  start 
a  series  of  classes  for  women. 

Paula  lived  alone  in  a  small  apartment  at  the 
Zoroaster,  "  Top-side  o'  Park."  Few  friends,  many 
books,  within  a  car  ride  of  the  world's  best  fruition  in 
plays,  lectures,  music,  and  painting — yet  the  reality  of 
it  all  was  the  expansion  of  her  mind  in  the  days  and 
nights  alone.  The  subtle  relations  of  things  encroached 
upon  her  intelligence  with  a  steady  and  certain  trend. 
She  never  had  to  pass,  like  so  many  of  cruder  nature, 
through  the  horrid  trials  of  materialism ;  nor  to  be  pain 
fully  bruised  in  mind  from  buffeting  between  man 
handled  creeds  and  the  pure  ethics  of  the  Lord  Christ. 
Hers  was  not  an  aggressive  masculine  originality,  but 
the  complement  of  it — that  inspiring,  completing  femi 
nine  intelligence,  elastic  to  a  man's  hard-won  concepts 
and  ready  with  a  crown  for  them. 

Something  of  this  type  of  woman,  the  big-brained 
brothers  of  men  have  written  and  chiselled,  painted, 
sung  and  dreamed  of,  since  human  thought  first  lifted 
above  the  appetites.  There  must  be  a  bright  answer  for 
each  man's  particular  station  of  evolution  in  the  world's 
dumfounding  snarl  of  the  sexes— one  woman  to  lighten 
his  travail  and  accelerate  his  passage  to  the  Uplands. 
For  we  are  but  half-men,  man  and  woman  alike.  The 
whole  is  two,  whose  union  forms  One.  .  .  .  This  is 
the  key  to  Nature's  arcanum;  this,  the  one  articulate 
sentence  from  all  the  restless  murmuring  out  of  the 
past;  this,  the  stupendous  Purpose  weaving  the  million 
thrilling  and  truant  activities  of  the  present  hour — the 


The  Remarkable  Eyes  15 

clean  desire  for  completion — the  union  of  two  which 
forms  One. 

The  search  for  this  completing  woman  is  the  secret 
of  man's  roving  in  the  gardens  of  sense.  His  frequent 
falls  into  abysmal  depravity  are  but  results  incidental 
to  the  occultations  of  his  Guide  Star.  From  reptiles 
in  the  foul  smoke  of  chaos,  to  the  lifted  spines  of  man 
hood  on  a  rising  road,  Man  has  come;  and  by  the 
interminable  torture  of  the  paths  which  sink  behind, 
he  has  the  other  half  of  eternity  to  reach  the  Top. 

From  a  child  whose  fairies  were  only  enchanted  into 
books  for  day-time  convenience,  darkness  to  Paula 
meant  visions,  indeed.  Often  now  at  night,  though  she 
never  spoke  of  it,  the  little  apartment  was  peopled  by 
the  spirits  of  her  reading  and  her  ideals — mystics,  priests, 
prophets,  teachers,  ascetics.  To  the  congenial  dark 
they  came — faces  unlike  any  she  had  ever  seen,  but 
quite  unmistakable  in  her  dreamings.  Once  when  she 
pampered  a  natural  aversion  to  meat  for  several  months, 
soft  footfalls  and  low  voices  (which  had  nothing  what 
ever  to  do  with  her  neighbors  across  the  hall,  or  the 
elevator-man  in  any  passage)  began  to  rouse  her  in 
the  night.  New  York  is  no  place  for  such  refinements 
of  sense,  and  she  checked  these  manifestations  through 
physical  exercise  and  increased  diet.  She  was  seldom 
afraid,  but  there  was  a  tension  in  all  her  imaginings, 
and  she  grew  marvellously  in  this  twenty-eighth  year 
— furnishing  her  mind  more  sumptuously  than  she  knew. 
Reifferscheid  saw  this  in  her  eyes  and  in  her  work. 

Throughout  the  swiftly  passing  day,  Paula  realized 
that  she  would  go  to  Prismatic  Hall  in  West  Sixty- 
seventh  Street,  where  Dr.  Bellingham  was  to  organize 


16  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

his  lecture-course  that  night.  Against  this  foreknowl 
edge  was  a  well-defined  distaste  for  the  man  and  his 
work.  Between  the  two,  the  thought  of  the  evening 
crowded  frequently  into  mind  until  she  became  im 
patient  with  herself  at  the  importance  it  assumed.  It 
was  with  a  certain  feminine  manipulation  of  conscience, 
so  deft  as  almost  to  be  unconscious,  that  she  excused 
her  own  curiosity  on  the  ground  that  her  disfavor  for 
the  doctor  and  his  message  would  be  strengthened  by 
the  first  meeting,  beyond  the  need  of  further  experience. 

One  concession  she  made  to  her  natural  aversion — 
that  of  going  late.  She  was  in  a  mood  poignantly 
critical.  The  real  Paula  Linster,  she  fancied,  was  at 
home,  "  Top-side  o'  Park " ;  here  was  just  a  sophis 
ticated  professional  surface,  such  as  reporters  carry 
about.  The  Hall  was  packed  with  women ;  the  young 
and  the  jaded ;  faces  of  pup-innocence ;  faces  bitten 
from  terrible  expeditions  to  the  poles  of  sense;  faces 
tired  and  thick  from  the  tread  of  an  orient  of  emotions ; 
slow-roving  eyes  which  said,  "  I  crave — I  crave !  I  have 
lost  the  sense  of  reality,  but  seven  sick  and  pampered 
organs  crave  within  me !  " 

The  thought  came  to  Paula — to  be  questioned  after 
ward — that  man's  evil,  after  all,  is  rudimentary  com 
pared  to  a  worldly  woman's;  man's  soul  not  so  com 
plicated,  nor  so  irrevocably  identified  with  his  sensual 
organism.  She  could  not  avoid  pondering  miserably 
upon  woman's  innate  love  for  far  ventures  into  sen 
sation,  permitting  these  ventures  to  be  called  (if  the 
world  would)  searches  for  the  holy  grail.  The  inevitable 
attraction  for  women  which  specialists  of  the  body 
possess,  actually  startled  her.  Bellingham  was  one  of 


The  Remarkable  Eyes  17 

these.  On  the  surface  of  all  his  sayings,  and  all  com 
ment  about  him,  was  the  bland,  deadly  insinuation  that 
the  soul  expands  in  the  pursuit  of  bodily  health.  About 
his  name  was  the  mystery  of  his  age,  whispers  of  his 
physical  perfection,  intimations  of  romantic  affairs,  the 
suggestion  of  his  miraculous  performances  upon  the 
emotions — the  whole  gamut  of  activities  designed  to 
make  him  the  instant  aversion  of  any  normal  member 
of  his  own  sex.  Yet  the  flock  of  females  had  settled 
about  him,  as  they  have  settled  about  every  black  human 
plague — and  glorious  messiah — since  the  birth  of  days. 

The  thrilled,  expectant  look  on  several  faces  brought 
to  Paula's  mind  the  type  of  her  sisters  who  relish  being 
shocked;  whose  exaltations  are  patently  those  of  emo 
tional  contact;  who  call  physical  excitement  the  glorify 
ing  of  their  spirit,  and  cannot  be  persuaded  to  confess 
otherwise.  Woman  as  a  negation  for  man  to  play 
upon  never  distressed  her  before  with  such  direct  and 
certain  pressure.  Here  were  women  intent  upon  en 
countering  a  new  sensation;  women  who  devoutly 
breathed  the  name  of  Motherhood  next  to  Godhood, 
and  yet  endured  their  pregnancy  with  organic  rebellion 
and  mental  loathing;  women  who  could  not  conceive  of 
love  apart  from  the  embrace  of  man,  and  who  imagine 
a  "  message  "  in  deformed  and  salacious  novels,  making 
such  books  popular;  women  of  gold-leaf  culture  whose 
modesty  fastens  with  a  bow — narrow  temples  of  in 
finite  receptivity.  .  .  . 

Why  had  they  come?    In  the  perfect  feminine  system 

of  information,  the  whisper  had  run :    "  Bellingham  is 

wonderful.     Bellingham  tells  you  how  to  live  forever. 

Bellingham  teaches  the  renewal  of  self  and  has  esoteric 

2 


18  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

classes — for  the  few!"  They  had  the  sanction  of  one 
another.  There  was  no  scandal  in  being  there  openly, 
nor  any  instinct,  apparently,  to  warn  them  that  secret 
classes  to  discover  how  to  live  forever,  had  upon  the 
surface  no  very  tonic  flavor.  The  digest  of  the  whole 
matter  was  that  revelations  sooner  or  later  would  be 
made  to  a  certain  few,  and  that  these  revelations,  which 
would  be  as  fine  oil  upon  the  mental  surfaces  of  many 
women  near  her,  would  act  as  acid  upon  the  male  mind 
generally. 

In  the  sickening  distaste  for  herself  and  for  those 
who  had  to  make  no  concession  to  themselves  for  com 
ing,  inasmuch  as  society  permitted;  and  who  would  be 
heartfully  disappointed  in  a  lecture  on  hygiene  that  did 
not  discuss  the  more  intimate  matters  of  the  senses, 
Paula  did  not  appraise  the  opposite  sex  at  any  higher 
value.  She  merely  reviewed  matters  which  had  come 
to  her  vividly  as  some  of  the  crowning  frailties  of 
her  own  kind.  The  centre  of  the  whole  affair,  Dr. 
Bellingham,  was  now  introduced. 

He  looked  like  a  Dane  at  first  glance.  His  was  the 
size,  the  dusty  look  and  the  big  bone  of  a  Dane;  the 
deep,  downy  paleness  of  cheek,  the  tumbled,  though  not 
mussy  hair.  He  was  heavy  without  being  adipose, 
lean,  but  big-boned;  his  face  was  lined  with  years, 
though  miraculously  young  in  the  texture  of  skin.  The 
lips  of  a  rather  small  and  feminine  mouth  were  fresh 
and  red  as  a  girl's.  In  the  softness  of  complexion  and 
the  faintest  possible  undertone  of  color,  it  was  impossible 
not  to  think  of  perfected  circulation  and  human  health 
brought  to  truest  rhythm.  The  costliest  lotions  cannot 
make  such  a  skin.  It  is  organic  harmony.  Exterior 


The  Remarkable  Eyes  19 

decoration  does  not  delude  the  seeing  eye  any  more 
than  a  powder-magazine  becomes  an  innocent  cottage 
because  its  walls  are  vine-clad.  .  .  .  Directly  behind  her, 
Paula  now  heard  a  slow  whisper: 

• 

"  I  knew  him  twenty-five  years  ago,  and  he  is  not  a 
moment  older  to  look  at." 

She  seemed  to  have  heard  the  voice  before,  and 
though  the  sentence  surged  with  a  dark  significance 
through  her  mind,  she  did  not  turn.  Bellingham's  words 
were  now  caressing  the  intelligence  of  his  audience.  To 
Paula,  his  soft  mouth  was  indescribably  odious  with 
cultured  passion,  red  with  replenishment,  fresh  with 
that  sinister  satisfaction  which  inevitably  brings  to  mind 
a  second  figure,  fallen,  drained.  His  presence  set  to 
quivering  within  her,  fears  engendered  from  the  great 
occult  past.  Strange  deviltries  would  always  be  shad 
owed  about  the  Bellingham  image  in  her  mind.  .  .  . 
Here  was  a  man  who  made  a  shrine  of  his  body,  in 
vested  it  with  a  heavy  hungering  God,  and  taught  others 
— women — to  bow  and  to  serve. 

To  her  the  body  was  but  a  nunnery  which  enclosed 
for  a  time  an  eternal  element.  This  was  basic,  in 
controvertible  to  her  understanding.  All  that  placated 
the  body  and  helped  to  make  fleshly  desires  last  long, 
was  hostile  to  the  eternal  element.  Not  that  the  body 
should  be  abused  or  neglected,  but  kept  as  nearly  as 
possible  a  clean  vessel  for  the  spirit,  brought  to  a  fine 
automatic  functioning.  It  was  as  clear  to  Paula  Linster 
as  the  faces  of  the  women  about  her,  that  the  splendid 
sacrifice  of  Jesus  was  not  that  He  had  died  upon  the 
Cross,  but  that  He  put  on  flesh  in  the  beginning  for  the 
good  of  infant-souled  men.  .  .  .  To  eat  sparingly  of 


20  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

that  which  is  good;  to  sleep  when  weary;  to  require 
cleanliness  and  pure  air — these  were  the  physical  laws 
which  worked  out  easily  for  decent  minds.  Beyond 
such  simple  affairs,  she  did  not  allow  the  body  often 
to  rule  her  brain.  When,  indeed,  the  potentialities  of 
her  sex  stirred  within,  Paula  felt  that  it  was  the  down- 
pull  of  the  old  brood-mother,  Earth,  and  not  the  lifting 
of  wings. 

Bellingham's  voice  correlated  itself,  not  with  the 
eyes  and  brow,  but  with  the  Lilith  mouth — that  strangely 
unpunished  mouth.  It  was  soft,  suave.  There  was 
in  it  the  warmth  of  breath.  The  high  white  forehead 
and  the  tousled  brown  hair,  leonine  in  its  masculinity 
— seemed  foreign  as  another  man's.  She  hearkened  to 
the  voice  of  a  doctor  used  to  women;  one  who  knows 
women  without  illusion,  whom  you  could  imagine  say 
ing,  "  Why  bless  you,  women  never  say  '  no/  " 

The  eyes  were  blue-gray,  but  toned  very  darkly.  The 
iris  looked  small  in  contrast  to  the  expanse  of  clear 
white.  They  were  fixed  like  a  bird's  in  expression,  in 
capable  of  warming  or  softening,  yet  one  did  not  miss 
the  impression  that  they  could  brighten  and  harden, 
even  to  shining  in  the  dark.  Heavy  blonde  brows  added 
a  look  of  severity. 

Paula's  spirit,  as  if  recognizing  an  old  and  mortal 
enemy,  gathered  about  itself  every  human  protecting 
emotion.  Frankly  hateful,  she  surveyed  the  man,  listen 
ing.  He  talked  marvellously ;  even  in  her  hostility,  she 
had  to  grant  that.  The  great  sunning  cat  was  in  his 
tones,  but  the  words  were  joined  into  clean-thought 
expression,  rapid,  vivid,  unanswerable.  He  did  not 
speak  long;  the  first  meeting  was  largely  formative. 


The  Remarkable  Eyes  21 

Paula  knew  he  was  studying  his  company,  and  watched 
him  peer  into  the  faces  of  the  women.  His  mouth 
occasionally  softened  in  the  most  winsome  and  en 
gaging  way,  while  his  words  Yan,  on  with  the  re 
fined  wisdom  of  ages.  And  always  to  her,  his  eyes 
stood  out  cold,  hard,  deadly. 

Finally,  she  was  conscious  that  they  were  roving 
near  her;  moving  left  to  right,  from  face  to  face, 
as  a  collection-plate  might  have  been  passed.  Her 
first  thought  was  to  leave;  but  fear  never  failed  to 
arouse  an  impulse  to  face  out  the  cause.  The  second 
thought  was  to  keep  her  eyes  lowered.  This  she  tried. 
His  words  came  clearly  now,  as  she  stared  down  into 
the  shadow — the  perfectly  carved  thoughts,  bright  and 
swift  like  a  company  of  soldiers  moving  in  accord. 
As  seconds  passed,  this  down-staring  became  insufferable 
as  though  some  one  were  holding  her  head.  She  could 
not  breathe  under  repression.  Always  it  had  been  so; 
the  irresistible  maddened  the  very  centres  of  her  reason 
— a  locked  room,  a  hand  or  a  will  stronger  than  her 
own. 

Raising  her  head  with  a  gasp,  as  one  coming  to  the 
surface  from  a  great  depth  of  water,  she  met  Belling- 
ham's  glance  unerringly  as  a  shaft  of  light.  He  had 
waited  for  this  instant.  The  eyes  now  boring  into  her 
own,  seemed  lifted  apart  from  all  material  things,  veri 
table  essences  of  light,  as  if  they  caught  and  held  the 
full  rays  of  every  arc-lamp  in  the  Hall.  Warmth  and 
smiling  were  not  in  them ;  instead,  the  spirit  of  conquest 
aroused;  incarnate  preying-power,  dead  to  pity  and 
humor.  Here  was  Desire  toothed,  taloned,  quick  with 
every  subtle  art  of  nature.  Something  at  war  with  God, 


22  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

his  eyes  expressed  to  her.  Failing  to  master  God,  fail 
ing  to  foul  the  centres  of  creative  purity,  this  Some 
thing  devoured  the  souls  of  women.  Continually  his 
voice  sought  to  drug  her  brain.  The  fine  edge  was  gone 
from  her  perceptions ;  dulled,  she  was,  to  all  but  his  say 
ings.  There  was  a  chill  behind  and  above  her  eyes ;  it 
swept  backward  and  seemed  to  converge  in  the  coarser 
ganglia  at  the  base  of  her  brain.  Once  she  had  seen 
a  bird  hop  and  flutter  lower  and  lower  among  the 
branches  of  a  lilacbush.  On  the  ground  below  was  a 
cat  with  head  twisted  upward — its  vivid  and  implacable 
eyes  distending.  Paula  could  understand  now  the  crip 
pling  magnetism  the  bird  felt.  .  .  .  Finally  she  could  hear 
only  the  words  of  Bellingham,  and  feel  only  his  power. 
What  he  was  saying  now  to  her  was  truth,  the  un 
qualified  truth  of  more-than-man. 

When  his  eyes  turned  away,  she  felt  ill,  futile,  im 
mersed  in  an  indescribable  inner  darkness.  Her  fingers 
pained  cruelly,  and  she  realized  she  had  been  clutching 
with  all  her  strength  the  book  in  her  hand — Quentin 
Charter's  book — which  she  had  begun  since  morning. 
She  could  not  remember  a  single  one  of  his  sentences 
which  had  impressed  her,  for  her  brain  was  tired  and 
ineffectual,  as  after  a  prolonged  fever,  but  she  held  fast 
to  the  bracing  effect  of  an  optimistic  philosophy.  Then 
finally  out  of  the  helplessness  of  one  pitifully  stricken, 
a  tithe  of  her  old  vitality  returned.  She  used  it  at 
once,  rose  from  her  seat  to  leave  the  Hall.  Into  the  base 
of  her  brain  again,  as  she  neared  the  door,  penetrated 
the  protest  of  his  eyes.  Had  she  been  unable  to  go  on, 
she  would  have  screamed.  She  felt  the  eyes  of  the 


23 

women,   too;    the  whole,  a  ghastly  experience.     Once 
outside,  she  wanted  to  run. 

Not  the  least  astonishing  was  the  quick  obliteration 
of  it  all.  This  was  because  her  sensations  were  the  result 
of  an  influence  foreign  to  her  own  nature.  In  a  few 
moments  she  felt  quite  well  and  normal  again,  and  was 
conscious  of  a  tendency  to  make  light  of  the  whole  pro 
ceeding.  She  reached  home  shortly  after  ten,  angered 
at  herself — inexplicable  perversity — because  she  had  taken 
Bellingham  and  the  women  so  seriously.  .  .  .  That 
night  she  finished  one  of  the  big  books  of  her  life — 
Quentin  Charter's  "  A  Damsel  Came  to  Peter."  When 
the  dawn  stole  into  the  little  flat,  her  eyes  were  stinging, 
and  her  temples  felt  stretched  apart  from  the  recent  hours. 


SECOND   CHAPTER 

PAULA  CONTEMPLATES  THE  WALL  OF  A  HUNDRED 

WINDOWS,  AND  THE  MYSTERIOUS  MADAME 

NESTOR  CALLS  AT  THE  ZOROASTER 

PAULA  had  never  felt  such  a  consciousness  of  vitality 
as  the  next  forenoon,  after  three  or  four  hours'  sleep. 
She  was  just  wwrested  enough  to  be  alive  with  tension. 
Her  physical  and  mental  capacities  seemed  expanded 
beyond  all  common  bounds,  and  her  thoughts  tumbled 
about  playfully  in  full  arenic  light,  as  athletes  awaiting 
the  beginning  of  performance.  She  plunged  into  a  tub 
of  cool  water  with  such  delight  as  thoroughly  to  souse 
her  hair,  so  it  became  necessary  to  spend  a  half-hour 
in  the  sunlight  by  the  open  window,  combing  and  fan 
ning,  her  mind  turning  over  wonderful  things. 

If  you  ever  looked  across  a  valley  of  oaks  and 
maples  and  elms  in  the  full  morning  glow  of  mid- 
October,  you  can  divine  the  glory  of  red  and  brown 
and  gold  which  was  this  fallen  hair.  One  must  medi 
tate  long  to  suggest  with  words  the  eyes  of  Paula 
Linster;  perhaps  the  best  her  chronicler  can  do  is  to 
offer  a  glimpse  from  time  to  time.  Just  now  you  are 
asked  for  the  sake  of  her  eyes  to  visualize  that  lustrous 
valley  once  more — only  in  a  dusk  that  enriches  rather 
than  dims.  A  memorably  beautiful  young  woman, 
sitting  there  by  the  open  window — one  of  the  elect 
would  have  said. 

The  difficulty  in  having  to  do  with  Linster  attrac- 
24 


Madame  Nestor  Calls  25 

tions  is  to  avoid  rising  into  rhapsody.  One  thinks  of 
stars  and  lakes,  angels  and  autumn  lands,  because  his 
heart  is  full  as  a  country-boy's,  and  high  clean-clipped 
thinking  is  choked.  Certainly,  once  having  known  such 
a  woman,  you  will  never  fall  under  the  spell  of  Wein- 
inger,  or  any  other  scale-eyed  genius.  There  is  an 
inspiring  reach  to  that  hard-handled  word,  Culture, 
when  it  is  used  about  a  woman  like  this.  It  means  so 
pure  a  fineness  as  neither  to  require  nor  to  be  capable 
of  ostentation ;  and  yet,  a  fineness  that  wears  and  gives 
and  associates  with  heroisms.  You  think  of  a  lineage 
that  for  centuries  has  not  been  fouled  by  brutality  or 
banality,  and  has  preserved  a  glowing  human  warmth, 
too,  to  retain  the  spirit  of  woman.  When  men  rise 
to  the  real  and  the  worthy,  one  by  one,  each  will  find 
his  Paula  Linster,  whom  to  make  happy  is  happiness; 
whose  companionship  inevitably  calls  forth  his  best ; 
whom  to  be  with  constantly  means  therefore  that  all 
within  him,  not  of  the  best,  must  surely  die.  Clearly 
when  a  man  finds  such  a  woman,  all  his  roads  are 
closed,  save  one — to  the  Shining  Heights !  And  who  can 
say  that  his  royal  mate  will  not  laughingly  unfold 
wings  for  him,  when  they  stand  together  in  the  radiant 
altitude  ? 

She  was  thinking  of  Charter's  book  as  she  brushed 
her  hair  dry.  His  sentences  played  brightly  in  her 
mind,  fastening  themselves  to  comment  of  her  own  for 
the  review.  Deep  was  the  appeal  of  the  rapt,  sunlit 
face,  as  she  looked  away  across  the  rear-court.  The 
colored  hall-boy  of  her  own  house  might  have  missed 
the  exquisite  lines  of  lip,  eyelid,  nostril,  brow,  temple 
and  chin,  but  his  head  uncovered  in  her  presence,  and 


26  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

the  choicest  spirit  of  service  sprang  within  him.  In 
all  about  her,  to  an  enlightened  vision,  was  the  un 
conscious  repression  of  beauty — art-stirring  lines  of 
mental  and  spiritual  awakening;  that  look  of  deep 
inner  freshness  and  health,  the  mere  sight  of  which 
disgusts  a  man  with  all  he  has  done  to  soil  and  sicken 
his  body.  Full  and  easily  she  breathed,  as  one  who 
relishes  sweet  air  like  the  taste  of  pure  water.  You 
could  imagine  Paula  exclaiming  with  joy  at  the  tonic 
delight  of  a  wind  from  the  sea,  but  not  from  the  steam 
ing  aroma  of  a  grill.  It  was  all  an  aesthetic  attraction — 
not  an  over-rounded  arc,  not  a  tissue  stretched  shiny 
from  uneven  plumpness,  not  a  drowsy  sag  or  fold  to 
suggest  the  easy  content  of  a  mere  feeding  and  breed 
ing  animal. 

The  rear-view  of  a  great  granite-ridge  of  rooming- 
houses  across  the  court  had  often  fascinated  her  with 
the  thought  of  the  mysteries  within.  Once  she  had 
spoken  to  Reifferscheid  about  the  splendid  story  of 
New  York  yet  to  be  written  by  someone  who  watched, 
as  she  often  did,  one  of  these  walls  of  a  hundred 
windows. 

"  Yes,"  he  had  said.  "  It's  great  to  be  poor.  Best 
blood  of  New  York  is  in  those  back  rooms.  Everyone 
needs  his  poverty-stage  of  growth — about  seven  years 
will  do.  It  teaches  you  simplicity.  You  step  into  your 
neighbor's  room  and  find  him  washing  his  stockings  with 
shaving-soap.  He  explains  that  it  is  better  than  tooth- 
powder  for  textile  fabrics.  Also,  he  intimates  that  he 
has  done  a  very  serious  thing  in  wetting  down  these 
small  garments,  having  looked  in  his  bag  since,  and 
learned  that  he  has  not  another  pair.  However,  he 


Madame  Nestor  Calls  27 

wrings  them  very  tight  and  puts  them  on  with  the  re 
mark  that  this  is  a  certain  way  to  prevent  shrinkage." 

Even  now,  a  man  stood  by  his  window  in  a  sleeve 
less  garment  and  a  ruff  of  lather,  shaving  with  a  free 
hand,  and  a  song  between  strokes.  His  was  a  shining 
morning  face,  indeed.  ...  A  bare  feminine  arm  leaped 
quickly  forth  from  behind  a  tightened  curtain  nearby 
and  adjusted  a  flower-pot  better  to  the  sunlight.  From 
somewhere  came  a  girlish  voice  in  Wagner's  Walkure 
Call.  There  was  not  a  thought  of  effort  in  her  carrying 
that  lofty  elaborate  music — just  a  fine  heart  tuned  to 
harmony  on  a  rare  morning.  The  effect  is  not  spoiled 
by  the  glimpse  of  a  tortured  feminine  face  igniting  a 
cigarette  over  a  gas-flame  that  has  burned  all  night. 
The  vibrations  of  New  York  are  too  powerful  for  many, 
but  there  is  more  of  health  and  hope  than  not.  .  .  . 
A  good  mother  cleanses  a  sauce-pan  from  her  water- 
pitcher  and  showers  with  the  rinsing  a  young  heaven- 
tree  far  below.  Then  she  lifts  in  a  milk-bottle  from  the 
stone  ledge — and  blows  the  dust  from  the  top.  .  .  . 

Often  at  night  when  Paula  awakened  she  could  hear 
the  drum  of  a  typewriter  winging  across  the  precipice — 
one  of  the  night-shift  helping  to  feed  the  insatiable 
maw  of  print.  Had  New  York  called  him?  Would 
the  City  crush  him  into  a  trifler,  with  artificial  emotions, 
or  was  this  a  Daniel  come  to  interpret  her  evil  dreams? 
...  In  a  corner-room  with  two  windows,  sat  a  lame 
young  man  before  an  easel.  Almost  always  he  was 
there,  when  there  was  light.  Heaven  be  with  him, 
Paula  thought,  if  his  picture  failed.  .  .  .  And  in  one 
of  the  least  and  darkest,  an  old  man  sat  writing.  Day 
after  day,  he  worked  steadily  through  the  hours.  To 


28  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

what  god  or  devil  had  he  sold  his  soul  that  he  was 
thus  condemned  to  eternal  scrivening?  This  was  the 
harrowing  part.  The  back-floors  of  New  York  are  not 
for  the  old  men.  Back-rooms  for  the  young  men  and 
maidens,  still  strong  in  the  flight  of  time  and  the 
fight  of  competition — back-rooms  for  young  New  York. 
Nature  loses  interest  in  the  old.  Civilization  should  be 
kinder. 

From  an  unseen  somewhere  a  canary  poured  out  a 
veritable  fire-hose  torrent  of  melody;  and  along  one 
of  the  lower  window  ledges  opposite,  an  old  gray  cat 
was  crouched,  a  picture  of  sinister  listening.  Here 
was  a  dragon,  indeed,  for  small,  warm  birds. 

Directly  opposite  a  curtain  was  lifted,  and  a  woman, 
no  longer  young,  appeared  to  breathe  the  morning. 
Many  New  Yorkers  knew  this  woman  for  her  part 
in  children's  happiness.  There  was  a  whisper  that 
she  had  once  been  an  artist's  model — and  had  loved  the 
artist.  .  .  .  There  was  one  woman  long  ago — a  woman 
with  a  box  of  alabaster — who  was  forgiven  because  she 
loved  much.  .  .  .  The  lady  across  the  way  loved  children 
now,  children  of  most  unhappy  fortunes.  To  those 
who  came,  and  there  were  many,  she  gave  music  les 
sons  ;  often  all  day  long  helping  grimy  fingers  to  falter 
over  the  keys.  So  she  awakened  poetry  and  planted 
truth-seedlings  in  shaded  little  hearts.  To  the  children, 
though  the  lady  was  poor  as  any — in  spite  of  her 
piano  and  a  wall  of  books — she  was  Lady  Bountiful, 
indeed.  .  .  .  Paula  smiled.  Two  windows,  strangely 
enough  side  by  side,  were  curtained  with  stockings  out 
to  dry.  In  one,  there  were  many — cerise  and  lavender, 
pink  and  baby  blue.  In  the  next  there  were  but  two 


Madame  Nestor  Calls  29 

pair,  demurely  black.  What  a  world  of  suggestion  in 
the  contrast!  .  .  .  So  it  was  always — her  wall  of  a 
hundred  windows,  a  changing  panorama  of  folly, 
tragedy,  toil  that  would  not  bow  to  hopelessness,  vanity, 
art,  sacrifice.  Blend  them  all  together  above  the  traffic's 
roar — and  you  have  the  spirit  of  young  New  York. 

She  put  on  the  brass  kettle  at  length,  crossing  the 
room  for  an  occasional  glance  into  the  mirror  as  she 
finished  her  hair.  .  .  .  The  strange  numbing  power  she  had 
felt  the  night  before  crept  suddenly  back  from  her  eyes 
now  to  the  base  of  her  brain,  striving  to  cripple  her 
volition.  Bellingham  was  calling  her.  .  .  .  The  sunlight 
was  gone.  There  was  a  smell  of  hot  metal  in  the  air,  as 
if  some  terrific  energy  had  burned  out  the  vitality.  Her 
heart  hurt  her  from  holding  her  breath  so  long.  Beyond 
all  expression  she  was  shocked  and  shamed.  The  mirror 
showed  now  a  spectral  Paula  with  crimson  lips  and  hag 
gard  eyes.  .  .  .  An  indescribable  fertility  stirred  within 
her — almost  mystic,  like  a  whisper  from  spiritland  where 
little  children  play,  waiting  to  be  born.  She  could  have 
fallen  in  a  strange  and  subtle  thrall  of  redolent  imagin 
ings,  except  that  thought  of  the  source  of  it  all,  the 
occultist — was  as  acid  in  her  veins. 

She  drank  tea  and  crossed  the  street  to  the  Park 
for  an  hour.  The  radiance  of  autumn  impressed  her 
rarely;  not  as  the  death  of  a  year,  but  rather  as  a 
glorious  pageant  of  evening,  the  great  energies  of 
nature  all  crowned  with  fruition  and  preparing  for 
rest.  Back  in  her  room,  she  wrote  the  Charter  critique, 
wrote  as  seldom  before.  The  cool  spirit  of  the  essayist 
seemed  ignited  with  a  lyric  ardor.  In  her  momentary 
power  she  conceived  a  great  literary  possibility  of  the 


30  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

future — an  effulgent  Burns-vine  blossoming  forth  upon 
the  austere  cliff  of  a  Carlyle.  She  had  finished,  and 
it  was  dusk  when  Madame  Nestor  called. 

For  several  years,  at  various  philosophical  gather 
ings  and  brotherhoods,  Paula,  invariably  stimulated  by 
the  unusual,  had  encountered  this  remarkable  woman. 
Having  very  little  to  say  as  a  rule,  Madame  Nestor 
was  a  figure  for  comment  and  one  not  readily  for 
gotten  because  of  occasional  memorable  utterances.  In 
all  the  cults  of  New  York,  there  was  likely  no  in 
dividual  quite  so  out  of  alignment  with  ordinary  life. 
Indefinitely,  she  would  be  called  fifty.  Her  forehead 
was  broad,  her  mouth  soft.  The  face  as  a  whole  was 
heavy  and  flour-white.  There  was  a  distention  of  eye 
balls  and  a  pulpy  shapelessness  to  her  body  which  gave 
the  impression  of  advanced  physical  deterioration — that 
peculiar  kind  of  breaking  down,  often  noticeable  among 
psychics  of  long  practice.  Her  absolute  incapacity  to 
keep  anything  of  value  was  only  one  characteristic  of 
interest.  Madame  Nestor's  record  of  apparently  thought 
less  generosity  was  truly  inspiriting. 

"  I  had  to  see  you  to-day,"  she  said,  sinking  down 
with  a  sigh  of  relief.  "  I  sat  behind  you  last  night 
in  Prismatic  Hall." 

The  younger  woman  recalled  with  a  start — the 
whisper  she  had  heard.  She  leaned  forward  and  in 
quired  quickly :  "  So  it  was  you,  Madame  Nestor,  who 
knew — this  Bellingham  " — she  cleared  her  throat  as  she 
uttered  the  name — "  as  he  is  now — a  quarter  of  a  cen 
tury  ago  ?  " 

"  Yes.     How   very    strange   that   you    should    have 


Madame  Nestor  Calls  31 

heard  what  I  said.  .  .  .  You  will  join  one  of  his  classes, 
I  presume  ?  " 

"  I  can  imagine  doing  no  such  thing." 

"  Dear  Pauia,  do  you  think  it  will  really  turn  out — 
that  you  are  to  have  no  relation  with  Bellingham  ?  " 

Paula  repressed  the  instant  impulse  to  answer 
sharply.  The  fact  that  she  had  already  felt  Bellingham's 
power  made  the  other's  words  a  harsh  irritation. 

"  What  relation  could  I  have  ?  He  is  odious  to 
me." 

"  I  suppose  I  should  have  been  a  cinder  long  since, 
dear,  if  these  were  days  for  burning  witches,"  Madame 
Nestor  said.  "  When  I  saw  Bellingham's  eyes  settle 
upon  you  last  night — it  appeared  to  me  that  you  are  to 
know  him  well.  I  came  here  to  give  you  what  strength 
I  could — because  he  is  the  chief  of  devils." 

"  I'm  only  one  of  the  working  neuters  of  the  human 
hive,"  Paula  managed  to  declare. 

The  elder  woman  said  a  strange  thing :  "  Ah,  no.  The 
everlasting  feminine  is  alive  in  your  every  movement. 
A  man  like  Bellingham  would  cross  the  world  for  you. 
Some  strong-souled  woman  sooner  or  later  must  en 
compass  his  undoing,  and  last  night  it  came  to  me  in  a 
way  to  force  my  conviction — that  you  are  the  woman." 

Paula  bent  toward  her.  Darkness  covered  the 
centres  of  her  mind  and  she  was  afraid.  She  could  not 
laugh,  for  she  had  already  met  the  magician's  will. 
"  But  I  loathe  him,"  she  whispered.  "  About  the  very 
name  when  I  first  heard  it  yesterday  was  an  atmosphere 
which  aroused  all  my  antagonism." 

"  Even  that — he  has  overcome,  but  it  may  help  you 
to  endure/' 


32  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

"  What   does    the    man    want  ?  " 

"  He  wants  life — life — floods  of  young,  fine  vitality 
to  renew  his  own  flesh.  He  wants  to  live  on  and  on 
in  the  body  which  you  have  seen.  It  is  all  he  has,  for 
his  soul  is  dead — or  feeble  as  a  frog's.  He  fears  death, 
because  he  cannot  come  back.  He  renews  his  life  from 
splendid  sources  of  human  magnetism — such  as  you 
possess.  It  is  Bellingham's  hell  to  know  that,  once 
out  of  the  flesh,  he  has  not  soul  enough,  if  any,  to 
command  a  human  body  again.  You  see  in  him  an 
empty  thing,  which  has  lived,  God  knows  how  many 
years,  hugging  the  warmth  of  his  blood — a  creature 
who  knows  that  to  die  means  the  swift  disintegration 
of  an  evil  principle." 

"  Do  you  realize,  Madame  Nestor,"  Paula  asked 
excitedly,  "  that  you  are  talking  familiarly  of  things 
which  may  exist  in  books  of  ancient  wisdom,  but  that 
this  is  New  York — New  York  packed  about  us?  New 
York  does  not  reckon  with  such  things." 

"  The  massed  soul  of  this  big  city  does  not  reckon 
with  such  things,  Paula.  That  is  true,  but  we  are 
apart.  Bellingham  is  apart.  He  is  wiser  than  the 
massed  soul  of  New  York." 

"  One  might  believe,  even  have  such  a  religious 
conviction,  but  you  speak  of  an  actual  person,  the 
terrible  inner  mystery  of  a  man,  whom  we  have  seen — 
a  man  who  frightened  me  hideously  last  night — and 
to-day!  You  bring  the  thing  home  to  a  room  in  a 
New  York  apartment.  .  .  .  Can't  you  see  how  hard  to 
adjust,  this  is?  I  don't  mean  to  stop  or  distract  you, 
but  this  has  become — you  are  helping  to  keep  it  so — 
such  an  intimate,  dreadful  thing !  " 


Madame  Nestor  Calls  33 

Madame  Nestor  had  been  too  long  immersed  in 
occultism  to  grasp  the  world's  judgment  of  her  sayings. 
"  Listen,  Paula,  this  that  I  tell  you  is  inherent  in  every 
thinking  man.  You  are  bewildered  by  the  personal 
nature  it  has  assumed.  .  .  .  To  every  one  of  us  shall 
come  the  terrible  moment  of  choice.  Man  is  not  con 
ceived  blindly  to  be  driven.  Imagine  a  man  who  is 
become  a  rapidly  evolving  mind.  On  the  one  side 
is  the  animal-nature,  curbed  and  obedient;  on  the  other, 
his  gathering  soul-force.  The  mind  balances  between 
these  two — soul  and  body.  The  time  has  come  for 
him  to  choose  between  a  lonely  path  to  the  Heights, 
or  the  broad  diverging  highway,  moving  with  pomp, 
dazzling  with  the  glare  of  vain  power,  and  brooded 
over  by  an  arrogant  materialism  which  slays  the  soul. 
.  .  .  The  spirit  of  man  says,  '  Take  the  rising  road 
alone.'  The  old  world-mother  sings  to  him  from  the 
swaying  throng,  '  Come  over  and  be  my  king.  Look 
at  my  arts,  my  palaces,  my  valiant  young  men  and  my 
glorious  women.  I  will  put  worship  in  the  hearts 
of  the  strong — for  you!  I  will  put  love  in  the  hearts 
of  the  beautiful — for  you !  Come  over  and  be  my 
king!  Later,  when  you  are  old  and  have  drunk  deep 
of  power — you  may  take  the  rising  road  alone.'  " 

Paula  invariably  qualified  a  dogmatic  statement  as 
a  possibility  in  her  own  mind;  but  something  of  this 
— man  reaching  a  moment  of  choice — had  always  ap 
pealed  to  her  as  a  fundamental  verity.  Man  must 
conquer  not  only  his  body,  but  his  brain,  with  its 
subtle  dreams  of  power,  a  more  formidable  conflict, 
before  the  soul  assumes  supremacy  in  the  mind,  and 
3 


34  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

man's  progress  to  the  Uplands  becomes  a  conscious 
and  glorious  ascent. 

"  You  put  it  with  wonderful  clearness,  Madame 
Nestor,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  an  old  woman  who  has  thought  of  these 
things  until  they  are  clear.  This  is  the  real  battle 
of  man,  beside  which  victory  over  mere  appetites  of 
the  body  is  but  a  boyish  triumph.  The  intellect  hungers 
for  power  and  possession;  to  hold  the  many  inferior 
intellects  in  its  own  despotic  destiny.  Against  this 
glittering  substance  of  attraction  is  the  still  intangible 
faith  of  the  soul — an  awful  moment  of  suspense.  God 
or  Mammon — choose  ye!  .  .  .  Listen,  Paula,  to  New 
York  below — treading  the  empty  mill  of  commerce " 

"New  York  has  not  chosen  yet?" 

"  No,  dear,  but  hundreds,  thousands,  are  learning 
in  preparation  for  that  moment  of  choice — the  falseness 
and  futility  of  material  possessions." 

"  That  is  a  good  thought — an  incorruptible  kind  of 
optimism ! "  Paula  exclaimed.  ..."  You  think  this 
Bellingham  has  made  the  evil  choice  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Long  ago." 

"  Yet  to  have  arisen  to  the  moment  of  choosing, 
you  say  he  must  have  conquered  the  flesh." 

"  Yes." 

"  But  you  depict  him — I  find  him — Desire  Incar 
nate  ! " 

"  Exactly,  Paula,  because  he  has  reverted.  The 
animal  controls  his  mind,  not  the  soul.  Bellingham  is 
retracing  his  way  back  to  chaos,  with  a  human  brain, 
all  lit  with  magic!  Out  of  the  gathered  knowledge 
of  the  ages,  he  has  drawn  his  forces,  which  to  us  are 


Madame  Nestor  Calls  35 

mystery.  He  uses  these  secret  forces  of  Nature  to 
prolong  his  own  life — which  is  all  he  has.  The  mystic 
cord  is  severed  within  him.  He  is  a  body,  nothing 
but  a  body — hence  the  passion  to  endure.  Out  of  the 
craft  of  the  past,  he  has  learned — who  knows  how  long 
ago? — to  replenish  his  own  vitality  with  that  of  others. 
He  gives  nothing,  but  drains  all.  Ah,  Paula,  this  I 
know  too  well.  He  is  kin  with  those  creatures  of 
legend,  the  loup-garou,  the  vampire.  I  tell  you  he  is 
an  insatiable  sponge  for  human  magnetism." 

"  Past  all  doubt,  can't  Bellingham  turn  back?  "  Paula 
asked  tensely.  "  With  all  his  worldly  knowledge,  and 
knowing  his  own  doom,  can  he  not  turn  back — far  back, 
a  lowly-organized  soul,  but  on  the  human  way?  "  Hope 
lessness,  anywhere,  was  a  blasting  conception  to  her. 

"  No.  I  tell  you  he  is  a  living  coffin.  There  is 
nothing  in  him  to  energize  a  pure  motive.  He  might 
give  a  fortune  to  the  poor,  but  it  would  be  for  his 
own  gain.  He  could  not  suffer  for  the  poor,  or  love 
them.  Dead  within,  he  is  detached  from  the  great 
centres  of  virtue  and  purity — from  all  that  carries 
the  race  forward,  and  will  "save  us  at  the  last.  You 
see  his  frightful  dependence  upon  this  temporal  physical 
instrument,  since  all  the  records  of  the  past  and  the 
unwritten  pages  of  the  future  are  wiped  out?  Isn't  it 
a  sheer  black  horror,  Paula, — to  know  that  from  the 
great  tide  of  hopeful  humanity,  one  is  set  apart;  to 
know  that  the  amazing  force  which  has  carried  one 
from  a  cell  in  the  ooze  to  thinking  manhood  must  end 
with  this  red  frightened  heart;  to  be  forced,  for  the 
continuance  of  life,  to  feed  upon  the  strength  of  one 
woman  after  another — always  fairer  and  finer " 


36  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

The  look  of  hatred  in  the  speaker's  face  had  become  a 
banner  of  havoc. 

"  Can  he  not  stop  that  kind  of  devouring  ?  "  Paula 
exclaimed.  "  Would  there  not  be  hope — if  he  battled 
with  that — put  that  vampirism  behind  ?  " 

Madame  Nestor  regarded  the  other  steadily,  until 
all  distortion  of  feature  had  given  away  to  her  ac 
customed  mildness.  Then  she  uttered  an  unforgettable 
question : 

"  Can  a  tiger  eat  grains?  " 

Vast  ranges  of  terrible  understanding  were  sug 
gested. 

"  It  is  my  duty,  if  I  ever  had  a  duty,"  the  caller 
went  on,  "  to  make  you  know  Bellingham  as  I  know 
him.  You  must  have  no  pity." 

"  Is  there  really  no  fact  by  which  his  age  can  be 
determined  ?  " 

"  None  that  I  know.  Twenty-five  years  ago,  when 
he  left  me  hideously  wise  and  pitifully  drained,  he 
looked  as  he  does  now." 

"  But  why,  oh  why,  do  you  always  think  of  me 
with  Bellingham  ?  "  Paula  dsked  hopelessly. 

"  I  watched  his  face  when  he  regarded  you  last 
night.  I  knew  the  look." 

"What  is  to  prevent  me  from  never  seeing  him? 
He  cannot  force  himself  upon  me  here — in  the  flesh. 
.  .  .  Certainly  you  would  not  tell  him  where  I  am, 
where  I  go — if  I  begged  you  not  to ! " 

Madame  Nestor  shuddered.  "  No,  Paula.  It  is 
because  you  are  frightened  and  tormented  that  such  a 
thought  comes.  It  is  I  who  am  showing  you  the  real 
Bellingham.  He  menaces  my  race.  None  but  big- 


Madame  Nestor  Calls  #7 

souled  women  are  useful  to  him  now.  He  is  drawn 
to  them,  as  one  hungry,  as  one  always  hungry.  It  is 
he  first  who  is  drawn.  Then  they  begin  to  feel  and 
respond  to  his  occult  attraction.  The  time  might  have 
come  when  you  would  worship  him — had  I  not  warned 
you.  I  did.  I  was  quite  his — until  I  learned.  A 
woman  knows  no  laws  in  the  midst  of  an  attraction 
like  this.  No  other  man  suffices " 

"  But  why — why  do  you  prepare  me?  Do  you  think 
I  cannot  resist  ?  "  Paula  asked  furiously.  She  felt  the 
bonds  about  her  already.  The  blood  rose  hot  and  re 
bellious  at  the  thought  of  being  bound.  It  was  the  old 
hideous  fear  of  a  locked  room — the  shut-in  horror  which 
meant  suffocation. 

"  If  I  thought  you  could  not  resist,  Paula,"  Madame 
Nestor  said,  "  I  should  advise  you  to  flee  to  the  re 
motest  country — this  moment.  I  should  implore  you 
never  to  allow  from  your  side  your  best  and  strongest 
friend.  But  I  have  studied  your  brain,  your  strength, 
your  heart.  I  love  you  for  the  thought  that  has  come 
to  me — that  it  is  you,  Paula  Linster,  who  is  destined 
to  free  the  race  from  this  destroyer." 

Often  in  the  last  half-hour  had  come  a  great  in 
ward  revolt  against  the  trend  of  her  caller's  words.  It 
passed  through  Paula  again,  yet  she  inquired  how  she 
could  thus  be  the  means. 

"  By  resisting  him.  Bellingham  once  told  me — 
trust  him,  this  was  after  I  was  fully  his — that  if  I 
had  matched  his  force  with  a  psychic  resistance  equally 
as  strong — it  would  mortally  have  weakened  him.  So 
if  he  seeks  to  subvert  your  will  and  fails,  this  great 
one-pointed  power  of  his,  developed  who  knows  how 


38  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

long — will  turn  and  rend  itself.  This  is  an  occult 
law." 

Paula  could  understand  this — the  wild  beast  of  phys 
ical  desire  rending  itself  at  the  last — but  not  the  concep 
tion  of  hopelessness — Bellingham  cut  off  from  immor 
tality.  The  woman  divined  her  thoughts. 

"  Again  I  beg  of  you,"  she  said  in  excitement, 
"  not  to  let  a  thought  of  pity  for  him  insinuate  itself 
in  your  brain — not  the  finest  point  of  it!  Think  of 
yourself,  of  the  Great  Good  which  must  sustain  you, 
of  the  benefit  to  your  race — think  of  the  women  less 
strong!  Fail  in  this,  and  Bellingham  will  absorb  your 
splendid  forces,  and  let  you  fall  back  into  the  common 
as  I  did — to  rise  again,  ah,  so  bitterly,  so  wearily! 
.  .  .  But  I  cannot  imagine  you  failing,  you  strong  young 
queen,  and  the  women  like  me,  the  legion  of  emptied 
shells  he  has  left  behind — we  shall  canonize  you,  Paula, 
if  you  shatter  the  vampire's  power." 

Thoughts  came  too  fast  for  speech  now.  They 
burned  Paula's  mind — a  destructive  activity,  because  in 
effectual.  She  wanted  to  speak  of  the  shameful  ex 
perience  of  the  morning,  but  she  could  not  bring  the 
words  to  confession. 

"  I  had  almost  forgotten,"  she  said  lightly  at  length, 
"  that  it  is  well  for  one  to  eat  and  drink.  Stay,  won't 
you  please,  and  share  a  bite  of  supper  with  me,  Madame 
Nestor?  We'll  talk  of  other  things.  I  am  deadly  tired 
of  Bellingham." 

A  hungry  man  would  have  known  no  repletion  from 
the  entire  offering  which  sufficed  for  these  two,  for 
gotten  of  appetite.  Wafers  of  dark  bread,  a  poached 
egg,  pickles,  a  heart  of  lettuce  and  a  divided  melon, 


Madame  Nestor  Calls  39 

cake  and  tea — yet  how  fully  they  fared!  .  .  .  They 
were  talking  about  children  and  fairy  tales  over  the 
teacups,  when  Paula  encountered  again  that  sinister 
mental  seizure — the  occultist's  influence  creeping  back 
from  her  reason  to  that  part  of  the  brain  man  holds 
in  common  with  animals.  .  .  .  The  lights  of  the  room 
dimmed;  her  companion  became  invisible.  Bellingham 
was  calling :  "  Come  to  me — won't  you  come  and  help 
me  in  my  excellent  labors?  Come  to  me,  Paula.  We 
can  lift  the  world  together — you  and  I.  Wonderful  are 
the  things  for  me  to  show  you — you  who  are  already  so 
wise  and  so  very  beautiful.  Paula  Linster, — come  to 
me!" 

Again  and  again  the  words  were  laid  upon  her 
intelligence,  until  she  heard  them  only.  All  the  rest 
was  an  anterior  murmuring,  as  of  wind  and  rivers. 
The  words  were  pressed  down  upon  the  surfaces  of 
her  brain,  like  leaf  after  leaf  of  gold-beaters'  film — and 
hammered  and  hammered  there.  .  .  .  He  was  in  a  great 
gray  room,  sitting  at  a  desk,  but  staring  at  her,  as 
if  there  were  no  walls  or  streets  between — just  a  little 
bit  of  blackness.  .  .  .  She  seemed  to  know  just  where 
to  go.  She  felt  the  place  for  her  was  there  in  the 
great  gray  room — a  wonderful  need  for  her  there.  .  .  . 
But  a  door  opened  into  the  room  where  he  sat — a 
door  she  had  not  seen,  for  she  had  not  taken  her  eyes 
from  his  face.  A  woman  came  in,  a  pale  woman,  a 
shell  of  beauty.  The  huge  tousled  head  at  the  desk 
turned  from  her  to  the  woman  who  entered.  Paula  saw 
his  profile  alter  hideously.  .  .  . 

Her  own  bright  room  filled  her  eyes  again,  and 
the  ashen  horror  on  the  countenance  of  Madame  Nestor, 
who  seemed  vaguely  to  see  it  all. 


40  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

"  I  think  I  should  have  gone  to  him,"  Paula  mur 
mured,  in  the  slow,  flat  tone  of  one  not  yet  quite 
normally  conscious. 

"  There  is  but  one  way,  you  poor  distressed  child 
— to  build  about  you  a  fortress  of  purity — which  he 
cannot  penetrate " 

"  I  think  I  should  have  known  the  car  to  take — 
the  place  to  enter,"  Paula  went  on,  unheeding,  "  the 
elevator  entrance — the  door  of  the  room " 

Madame  Nestor  continued  to  implore  her  to  pray. 
Paula  shivered  finally,  and  stared  at  the  other  for  a 
few  seconds,  as  if  recalling  the  words  the  visitor  had 
spoken,  and  the  past  she  had  lived  with  Bellingham. 
Her  terrible  rage  toward  herself  spread  and  covered 
Madame  Nestor.  Did  not  the  latter  still  dip  here, 
there,  and  everywhere  in  the  occult  and  weird?  Might 
she  not  have  something  to  do  with  the  projectiles  of 
Desire  ? 

"  I  think  I'd  better  be  alone  now,"  she  said  hoarsely. 
"  One  does  not  feel  like  invoking  the  Pure  Presence — 
when  one  is  chosen  for  such  defilement." 


THIRD   CHAPTER 

CERTAIN  DEVELOPING  INCIDENTS  ARE  CAUGHT 

INTO  THE  CURRENT  OF  NARRATIVE— ALSO 

A  SUPPER  WITH  REIFFERSCHEID 

IN  the  week  that  followed,  Paula's  review  of  Quen- 
tin  Charter's  new  book  appeared.  As  a  bit  of  luxury 
reading,  she  again  went  over  "  A  Damsel  Came  to 
Peter."  It  stood  up  true  and  strong  under  the  second 
reading — the  test  of  a  real  book.  The  Western  writer 
became  a  big  figure  in  her  mind.  She  thought  of  him 
as  a  Soul ;  with  a  certain  gladness  to  know  that  he 
was  Out  There;  that  he  refused  to  answer  the  call 
of  New  York;  that  he  had  waited  until  he  was  an 
adult  to  make  his  name  known,  and  could  not  now  be 
cramped  and  smothered  and  spoiled.  There  was  a 
sterilized  purity  about  parts  of  his  work — an  uncom 
promising  thunder  against  the  fleshly  trends  of  living 
— to  which  she  could  only  associate  asceticism,  celibacy, 
and  mystic  power.  He  was  altogether  an  abstraction, 
but  she  was  glad  that  he  lived — in  the  West  and  in 
her  brain. 

Also  her  mind  was  called  to  lower  explorations 
of  life;  moments  in  which  it  seemed  as  if  every  tissue 
within  her  had  been  carried  from  arctic  repressions  to 
the  springing  verdures  of  the  Indies.  A  sound,  an 
odor,  a  man's  step,  the  voice  of  a  child,  would  start 
the  spell,  especially  in  moments  of  receptivity  or  aim 
less  pondering.  Thoughts  formed  in  a  lively  fascinat 
ing  way,  tingling  dreamily  over  her  intelligence,  dilating 

41 


42  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

her  nostrils  with  indescribable  fragrance,  brushing  her 
eyelids  half-closed, — until  she  suddenly  awoke  to  the 
fact  that  this  was  not  herself,  but  Bellingham's  thirst 
playing  upon  her.  Beyond  words  dreadful  then,  it 
was  to  realize  this  thing  in  her  brain — to  feel  it  spread 
hungrily  through  her  veins  and  localize  in  her  lips, 
her  breast,  and  the  hollow  of  her  arms.  Bellingham 
crushed  the  trained  energies  of  his  thought-force  into 
her  consciousness,  rendering  her  helpless.  Though  he 
was  afterward  banished,  certain  physical  forces  which 
he  aroused  did  not  fall  asleep.  .  .  .  Frequently  came 
that  malignant  efflorescence.  Her  name  was  called; 
the  way  shown  her.  Once  when  she  was  summoned 
to  the  'phone,  she  knew  that  it  was  he,  but  could  not  at 
first  resist.  Reason  came  at  the  sound  of  her  own  hoarse 
and  frightened  voice.  Again  one  night,  between  nine 
and  ten,  when  Bellingham  was  in  power,  she  had  reached 
the  street  and  was  hurrying  toward  the  surface-car  in 
Central  Park  West.  Her  name  was  jovially  called  by 
Reifferscheid.  He  accompanied  her  through  the  Park 
and  back  to  her  door.  He  said  he  thought  that  she 
was  working  too  hard,  confessed  himself  skeptical  about 
her  eating  enough. 

One  thought  apart  from  these  effects,  Paula  could 
not  shake  from  her  mind:  Were  there  human  beings 
with  dead  or  dying  souls?  Did  she  pass  on  the  street 
men  and  women  in  whom  the  process  of  soul-starva 
tion  was  complete  or  completing?  Could  there  be 
human  mind-cells  detached  from  hope,  holiness,  charity, 
eternity,  and  every  lovely  conception;  infected  through 
out  with  earth's  descending  destructive  principle?  The 
thought  terrorized  her  soul,  so  that  she  became  almost 


Developing  Incidents  43 

afraid  to  glance  into  the  face  of  strangers.  To  think 
of  any  man  or  woman  without  one  hope!  This  was 
insufferable.  Compared  with  this,  there  is  no  tragedy, 
and  the  wildest  physical  suffering  is  an  easy  temporal 
thing.  She  felt  like  crying  from  the  housetops :  "  Listen 
to  pity;  love  the  good;  cultivate  a  tender  conscience; 
be  clean  in  body  and  humble  in  mind!  Nothing  mat 
ters  but  the  soul — do  not  let  that  die !  " 

Then  she  remembered  that  every  master  of  the 
bright  tools  of  art  had  depicted  this  message  in  his 
own  way;  every  musician  heard  it  among  the  splendid 
harmonies  that  winged  across  his  heaven ;  every  prophet 
stripped  himself  of  all  else,  save  this  message,  and 
every  mystic  was  ordered  up  to  Nineveh  to  give  it 
sound.  Indeed,  every  great  voice  out  of  the  multitude 
was  a  cry  of  the  soul.  It  came  to  her  as  never  before, 
that  all  uplift  is  in  the  words,  Love  One  Another.  If 
only  the  world  would  see  and  hear ! 

And  the  world  was  so  immovable — a  locked  room 
that  resisted  her  strength.  This  was  her  especial  terror 
— a  locked  room  or  a  locked  will.  .  .  .  Once  when  she 
was  a  little  girl,  she  released  a  caged  canary  that 
belonged  to  a  neighbor,  and  during  her  punishment, 
she  kept  repeating: 

"It  has  wings — wings!" 

Liberty,  spaces  of  sky,  shadowed  running  streams, 
unbroken  woods  where  the  paths  were  so  dim  as  not 
to  disturb  the  dream  of  undiscovered  depths — in  the 
midst  of  these,  Paula  had  found,  as  a  girl,  a  startling 
kind  of  happiness.  She  was  tireless  in  the  woods,  and 
strangely  slow  to  hunger.  No  gloomy  stillness  haunted 


44  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

her;  the  sudden  scamper  of  a  squirrel  or  rabbit  could 
not  shake  her  nerves,  nor  even  the  degraded  spiral 
of  a  serpent  gliding  to  cover.  Her  eyelids  narrowed 
in  the  midst  of  confinements.  School  tightened  her 
lips ;  much  of  it,  indeed,  put  a  look  of  hopeless  toleration 
in  her  eyes,  but  the  big,  silent  woods  quickly  healed 
her  mind;  in  them  she  found  the  full  life. 

At  one  time,  her  father  essayed  to  lock  her  in  a 
closet.  Paula  told  him  she  would  die  if  he  did,  and 
from  the  look  upon  the  child's  face,  he  could  not  doubt. 
.  .  .  He  had  directly  punished  her  once,  and  for  years 
afterward,  she  could  not  repress  a  shudder  at  his  touch. 
She  would  serve  him  in  little  things,  bring  him  the 
choicest  fruits  and  flowers;  she  anticipated  his  wants 
in  the  house  and  knew  his  habits  as  a  caged  thing 
learns  the  movements  of  its  keepers ;  invariably,  she 
was  respectful  and  apt — until  her  will  was  challenged. 
Then  her  mother  would  weaken  and  her  father  passed 
on  with  a  smile.  "  Paula  does  not  permit  me  to  forget 
that  I  have  the  honor  to  be  her  father,"  he  once  said. 

Reading  grew  upon  her  unconsciously.  There  was 
a  time  when  she  could  not  read,  another  when  she 
could.  She  did  not  remember  the  transition,  but  one 
afternoon,  when  she  was  barely  five,  she  sat  for  hours 
in  the  parlor  still  as  a  mole,  save  for  the  turning  leaves 
— sat  upon  a  hassock  with  Grimm.  It  was  The  Foster 
Brother  which  pioneered  her  mind.  That  afternoon  en 
dured  as  one  of  the  most  exquisite  periods  of  her  life. 
The  pleasure  was  so  intense  that  she  felt  she  must  be 
doing  wrong. 

Grimm   explained   the   whole   world,   in   proving  the 
reality  of  fairies.     The  soul  of  the  child  had  always 


Developing  Incidents  45 

been  awake  to  influences  her  associates  missed.  Won 
derful  Grimm  cleared  many  mysteries — the  unseen 
activities  of  the  woods,  the  visitors  of  the  dark  in  her 
room  before  she  was  quite  asleep;  the  invisible  weav 
ing  behind  all  events.  Later,  books  inevitably  brought 
out  the  element  of  attraction  between  man  and  woman, 
but  such  were  the  refinements  of  her  home  that  noth 
ing  occurred  to  startle  her  curiosity.  It  was  left  to 
the  friendly  woods  to  reveal  a  mystery  and  certain 
ultimate  meanings.  .  .  .  She  was  sick  with  the  force 
of  her  divining;  the  peace  and  purity  of  her  mind 
shattered.  The  accruing  revelations  of  human  origin 
were  all  that  she  could  bear.  She  rebelled  against 
the  mariner  of  coming  into  the  world,  a  heaven-high 
rebellion.  Something  of  pity  mingled  with  her  rever 
ence  for  her  mother.  For  years,  she  could  not  come 
to  a  belief  that  the  Most  High  God  had  any  inter 
est  in  a  creature  of  such  primal  defilement.  Queerly 
enough,  it  was  the  great  preparer,  Darwin,  who  helped 
her  at  the  last.  Man  having  come  up  through  dreadful 
centuries  from  an  earth-bent  mouth  and  nostril,  to  a 
pitying  heart  and  a  lifted  brow — has  all  the  more  hope 
of  becoming  an  angel.  .  .  . 

There  was  something  of  the  nature  of  a  birth 
mark  in  Paula's  loathing  for  the  animal  in  man  and 
woman.  Her  mother  had  been  sheltered  in  girlhood 
to  such  an  extent  that  the  mention  of  a  corsage-ribbon 
would  have  offended.  Very  early,  she  had  married,  and 
the  first  days  of  the  relation  crushed  illusions  that  were 
never  restored.  The  birth  of  Paula  ended  a  period 
of  inordinate  sorrow,  which  brought  all  the  fine  threads 
of  her  life  into  wear,  gave  expression  to  the  highest 


46  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

agony  of  which  she  was  capable,  and  ravelled  out  her 
emotions  one  by  one.  As  a  mother,  she  was  rather 
forceless;  the  excellent  elements  of  her  lineage  seemed 
all  expended  in  the  capacities  of  the  child.  Her  limita 
tions  had  not  widened  in  the  dark  months,  nor  had  her 
nature  refined.  It  was  as  if  the  heart  of  the  woman 
had  lost  all  its  color  and  ardor.  The  great  sweep  of 
Paula's  emotions;  her  strangeness,  her  meditative  mind 
and  heart-hunger  for  freedom ;  her  love  for  open  spaces, 
still  groves  and  the  prophylactic  trends  of  running  water 
— all  expressed,  without  a  doubt,  the  mysterious  ex 
piration  of  her  mother's  finer  life.  But  something  be 
yond  heredity,  distances  beyond  the  reach  of  human 
mind  to  explain,  was  the  lofty  quality  of  the  child's 
soul.  Very  old  it  was,  and  wise;  very  strange  and 
very  strong. 

Paula  never  failed  afterward  in  a  single  opportunity 
to  spare  younger  girl-friends  from  the  savagery  of 
revelation,  as  it  had  come  to  her.  The  bare  truth 
of  origin,  she  made  radiant  with  illimitable  human 
possibilities.  .  .  .  Her  dream  beyond  words  was  some 
time  to  give  the  world  a  splendid  man  or  woman.  Lov 
ing,  and  loved  by  a  strong-souled,  deep-thinking  man; 
theirs  the  fruit  of  highest  human  concord;  beautiful 
communions  in  the  midst  of  life's  nobilities,  and  the  glory 
of  these  on  the  brow  of  their  child — such  was  her  dream 
of  womanhood,  whitened  through  many  vicissitudes. 

Her  mother  died  when  Paula  was  twenty.  The  call 
came  in  the  night.  In  the  summons  was  that  awful 
note  which  tells  the  end.  Her  mother  was  on  the 
border  and  crossing  swiftly.  Paula  screamed. 

There  was  no  answer,  but  a  faint  ruffle  on  the  brow 
that  had  been  serene. 


Developing  Incidents  47 

"  Mother !  .  .  .  Mother !  "  a  last  time— then  the 
answer : 

"  Don't — call— me, — Paula !  Oh,  it— hurts — so — to 
be— called— back!" 

After  that,  the  dying  was  a  matter  of  hours  and 
great  pain.  Had  she  come  to  her  in  silence,  the  tired 
spirit  would  have  lifted  easily.  So  Paula  learned,  by 
terrible  experience,  the  inexpressible  value  of  silence  in 
a  room  with  death.  She  had  been  very  close  to  the 
mystery.  Holding  her  mother's  hand  and  praying  in- 
audibly  at  the  last,  she  had  felt  the  final  wrench  to 
the  very  core  of  her  being.  .  .  .  Departure,  indeed; 
Paula  was  never  conscious  of  her  mother's  spirit  after 
ward.  It  is  probably  futile  to  inquire  if  a  child  of 
one's  flesh  is  invariably  one's  spiritual  offspring.  .  .  . 
An  ineffectual  girl,  the  mother  became  a  hopeless  woman. 
In  the  interval,  out  of  the  grinding  of  her  forces, 
was  produced  a  fervent  heat.  .  .  .  Did  blind  negative 
suffering  make  her  receptive  to  a  gifted  child,  or 
did  Paula's  mother  merely  give,  from  her  own  lovely 
flesh,  a  garment  for  a  spirit-alien  from  a  far  and  shining 
country  ? 

Three  or  four  mornings  after  the  Charter  critique, 
Paula  brought  further  work  down-town.  Reifferscheid 
swung  about  in  his  chair  and  stared  at  her  fully  thirty 
seconds.  Then  he  spoke  brusquely,  possibly  to  hide 
his  embarrassment: 

"  Take  these  three  books  home,  but  don't  bother 
with  them  to-day.  I  want  you  back  here  at  four  o'clock. 
You  are  to  go  out  to  supper  with  me." 

The  idea  was  not  exactly  pleasant.     She  had  seen 


48  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

Reifferscheid  only  a  few  times  apart  from  his  desk, 
where  she  liked  him  without  reservation.  She  had 
always  pictured  him  as  a  club-man — a  typically  success 
ful  New  Yorker,  with  a  glitter  of  satire  and  irreverent 
humor  about  all  his  sayings.  The  thought  of  a  supper 
with  Reifferscheid  had  a  bit  of  supper  heaviness  about 
it.  The  club  type  she  preferred  to  know  from  a  sort 
of  middle  distance.  .  .  . 

"  Won't  you,  please  ?  " 

His  change  of  manner  was  effective.  All  brusque- 
ness  was  gone.  Paula  saw  his  real  earnestness,  and 
the  boyish  effort  of  its  expression.  There  was  no 
reason  for  her  to  refuse,  and  she  hesitated  no  longer. 
Yet  she  wondered  why  he  had  asked  her,  and  searched 
her  mind  to  learn  why  she  could  not  see  him  at 
leisure,  apart  from  a  club-window's  leather  chair;  at 
some  particular  table  in  a  grill  or  buffet,  or  enlivening 
a  game  of  billiards  with  his  inimitable  characterizations. 
One  of  the  finest  and  most  effective  minds  she  had 
ever  contacted  belonged  to  this  editor.  His  desk  was 
the  symbol  to  her  of  concentrated  and  full-pressure 
strenuousness ;  in  his  work  was  all  that  was  sophisti 
cated  and  world-weathered,  but  she  could  neither  ex 
plain  nor  overcome  the  conviction  that  his  excellence 
was  in  spite  of,  rather  than  the  result  of  his  life  out 
side.  .  .  .  She  met  him  on  the  stroke  of  four  in  the 
entrance  to  The  States  building,  and  he  led  the  way  at 
once  to  South  Ferry,  where  they  took  the  Staten  Island 
boat.  She  felt  that  he  was  not  at  ease  in  the  crowds, 
but  it  was  a  fact,  also,  that  he  did  not  appear  so  huge 
and  froggy  in  the  street,  as  in  the  crowded  office  she 
knew  so  well. 


Developing  Incidents  49 

"  Yes,  I  live  over  yonder,"  he  said,  drawing  two 
stools  to  the  extreme  forward  of  the  deck.  "  I  sup 
posed  you  knew.  The  nearest  way  out  of  New  York, 
this  is.  Besides,  you  get  full  five  cents'  worth  of  sea 
voyage,  and  it's  really  another  country  across  the  bay. 
That's  the  main  thing — not  a  better  country,  but  differ 
ent." 

Little  was  said  on  the  boat.  It  was  enough  to 
breathe  the  sea  and  contemplate  the  distances.  She 
scarcely  noticed  which  of  the  trolley-cars  he  helped 
her  into  at  the  terminal;  but  they  were  out  of  town 
presently,  where  there  were  curving  country  roads, 
second-growth  hills,  and  here  and  there  a  dim  ravine 
to  cool  the  eye.  Then  against  the  sky  she  discovered 
a  black  ribbon  of  woods.  It  was  far  and  big  to  her 
eyes,  full  of  luring  mysteries  that  called  to  her — her 
very  own  temples.  .  .  .  Turning  to  Reifferscheid,  she 
found  that  he  had  been  regarding  her  raptly.  He 
coughed  and  jerked  his  head  the  other  way,  delightfully 
embarrassed. 

"  Guess  you  like  it  here,"  he  said  after  a  moment. 
"  I  knew  you  would.  I  knew  I  ought  to  make  you 
come,  somehow.  You  see,  you're  a  little  too  fit — drawn 
just  a  trifle  too  fine.  It  isn't  that  you're  out  of  con 
dition  ;  just  the  contrary.  When  one's  drawn  so  fine  as 
you  are,  one  wears — just  from  living  at  joy  speed.  .  .  . 
We  get  off  here." 

"  It's  incredible  that  you  should  have  a  house  all 
to  yourself ! " 

They  were  walking  on  the  grass  that  edged  the 
road.  It  had  taken  an  hour  and  a  half  to  come.  Dusk 
was  beginning  to  crowd  into  the  distances.  Ahead  on 
4 


50  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

either  side  of  the  road  were  a  few  houses  with  land 
between. 

"  Whatever  you  call  it,"  said  Reifferscheid,  "  it's 
all  in  one  piece.  There  it  is  yonder — '  A  wee  cot,  a 
cricket's  chirr — Sister  Annie  and  the  glad  face  of 
her ' " 

"  A  little  white  house  under  big  trees ! "  Paula  ex 
claimed  joyously.  "  And  what's  that  big  dug-out  thing 
behind?" 

Reifferscheid  chuckled.  "  Dug-out  is  excellent. 
That's  the  aquarium  and  the  lily-lakes.  I  made  those 
Sierras  and  clothed  their  titanic  flanks  with  forests  of 
sod." 

"  Don't  ask  me  to  speak.  .  .  .  All  this  is  too  wonder 
ful  for  words."  ...  To  think  that  she  had  imagined 
this  man-mammoth  sitting  in  a  club-window.  In  truth, 
she  was  somewhat  perturbed  for  wronging  him,  though 
delighted  with  the  whole  expedition.  Sister  Annie  was 
startling,  inasmuch  as  her  face  was  as  fresh  and  whole 
some  as  a  snow-apple,  and  yet  she  could  not  leave 
her  invalid's  chair  unassisted.  She  was  younger  than 
Reifferscheid. 

"  I'm  so  glad  to  have  you  come,  Miss  Linster,"  she 
said.  "  Tim  was  really  set  upon  it.  He  speaks  of 
you  so  frequently  that  I  wanted  to  meet  you  very 
much.  I  can't  get  over  to  the  city  often." 

"  Tim."  This  was  the  name  of  names.  Paula  had 
known  nothing  beyond  "  T.  Reifferscheid."  One  after 
another,  little  joys  like  this  unfolded. 

"  It  will  be  too  dark  after  supper,"  the  sister  added. 
"  Tim  won't  be  content  until  you  see  his  system  of 
ponds.  You  better  go  with  him  now." 


Developing  Incidents  51 

Reifferscheid  already  filled  the  side-door.  Evidently 
inspection  was  the  first  and  only  formality  demanded 
of  the  guest  at  the  cottage.  Paula  followed  him  up  a 
tiny  gravel  path  to  the  rim  of  the  top  pond — a  saucer 
of  cement,  eighteen  inches  deep  and  seven  or  eight  feet 
across.  It  was  filled  with  pond-weed  and  nelumbo 
foliage.  Gold  fish  and  stickle-backs  played  in  the 
shadowed  water. 

"  It  isn't  the  time  of  year,  you  know,"  he  said 
apologetically.  "  The  lilies  are  through  blossoming,  and 
in  a  week  or  two,  I'll  have  to  take  my  fishes  back  to 
winter-quarters.  You  see  my  water  supply  comes  from 
Silver  Lake.  The  great  main  empties  here."  (Paula 
followed  his  finger  to  the  nozzle  of  a  hose  that  hung 
over  the  rim  of  cement  on  the  top  pond. )  "  The 
stream  overflows  in  Montmorency  Falls  yonder," — 
(this,  a  trickle  down  the  gravel  to  the  second  pond) — 
"  from  which,  you  can  hear  the  roar  of  the  cataracts 
into  the  lower  lake,  which  waters  the  lands  of  plenty 
all  about." 

His  look  of  surprise  and  disappointment  at  her 
laughter  was  irresistible. 

"  The  saurians  are  all  in  the  depths,  but  you  can 
see  some  of  my  snails,"  he  went  on.  "  You'd  be  sur 
prised  how  important  my  herd  of  snails  is  in  the  economy 
of  this  whole  lake  country." 

He  picked  up  a  pebble  from  the  edge  of  the  water, 
pointing  out  the  green  slime  that  covered  it.  "  These 
are  spores  of  a  very  influential  vegetable,  called  alga, 
which  spreads  like  cholera  and  vegetates  anywhere  in 
water  that  is  not  of  torrential  temperament.  Without 
my  snails,  the  whole  system  would  be  a  thick  green 


52  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

soup  in  a  month.  It's  getting  a  little  dark  to  see  the 
stickle-back  nests.  They  domesticate  very  curiously. 
Next  year,  I'll  have  a  fountain.  .  .  .  The  second-tank 
contains  a  frail,  northern  variety  of  water-hyacinths, 
some  rock  bass,  and  a  turtle  or  two.  Below  are  the  cat 
tails  and  ferns  and  mosses.  In  the  summer,  that  lower 
pond  is  a  jungle,  but  the  lilies  and  lotuses  up  here  are 
really  choice  when  in  blossom.  The  overflow  of  water 
rejoices  the  bugs  and  posies  generally.  Annie  likes  the 
yard-flowers." 

Paula  would  not  have  dared  to  say  how  enchantingly 
these  toy-lakes  and  lily-beds  had  adjusted,  in  her  mind, 
to  the  nature  of  the  big  man  beside  her,  whose  good 
word  was  valued  by  every  sincere  and  important  literary 
worker  in  the  country.  Tim  ReifFerscheid  turning  out 
his  tremendous  tasks  in  New  York,  would  never  be 
quite  the  same  to  her  again,  since  she  had  seen  him 
playing  with  his  hose  in  his  own  back  yard,  and  heard 
him  talk  about  his  snails  and  lilies,  and  the  land  posies 
that  Sister  Annie  liked.  Down-town,  he  had  always 
stimulated  her,  but  here  with  his  toy-engineering  and 
playful  watersheds,  he  was  equally  bracing  and  just  as 
admirable. 

Darkness  was  covering  them.  "  I  must  see  it  all 
again,"  she  said.  "  I  want  to  come  when  the  lilies 
are  blossoming.  I  could  watch  the  fishes  and  things — 
for  hours.  Really,  I  will  never  call  it  a  dug-out  again." 

She  saw  him  grinning  in  the  dusk. 

"  Come  in  to  supper,"  he  said.  "  You  see,  anything 
smaller  than  a  Staten  Island  back-yard  would  hardly 
do  for  me  to  play  in.  Then  there's  a  stillness  about 
here  that  I  like.  It  makes  your  ears  ache  a  little  at 


Developing  Incidents  53 

first.  You  wake  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night  and 
think  you're  under  the  earth  somewhere,  or  disembodied. 
Finally  it  comes  to  you  that  there's  nothing  to  be  afraid 
of  except  the  silence.  A  man's  head  gets  to  need  it 
after  a  time.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  there's  no  place  across 
the  bay  for  a  fat  man  after  working  hours." 

"  Miss  Linster,"  called  Sister  Annie  as  they  entered. 

Paula  followed  the  voice  into  a  speckless  spare  room. 

"  Supper  will  be  served  in  a  moment,"  the  other  said. 

"  I  just  wanted  to  tell  you — Tim  will  take  you  back  to  the 

city  to-night,  grateful  for  the  chance,  but  do  you  really 

have  to  go  ?    This  little  room  is  yours,  and  you  can  go  over 

together  in  the  morning.     Then  a  night  in  this  stillness 

will  calm  you  back  into  a  little  girl.    Tim  doesn't  know 

I'm  asking  you.     Please  do  just  as  you  want " 

Paula  didn't  have  the  heart  to  drag  the  big  brother 
back  to  town. 

"  Why,"  she  said  laughingly,  "  I'd  much  rather  stay 
than  not.  Think  how  good  this  all  is  to  me!  I  didn't 
have  an  idea  when  he  asked  me,  other  than  a  restaurant 
somewhere  in  New  York." 

"  I  am  so  glad.  .  .  .  Tim " 

He  tried  not  to  look  relieved  at  the  announcement. 
"  Really,  I  didn't  put  Annie  up  to  this,  but  if  you  are 
content  to  stay,  I  think  it  will  smooth  you  out  a  bit." 
After  supper  the  three  sat  out  in  the  yard.  There 
was  a  heavy  richness  in  the  air,  a  soft  sea-wind  flavored 
with  wood-fires  and  finished  fields.  Reifferscheid  smoked 
his  pipe  and  did  most  of  the  talking. 

"  I  glanced  over  Bertram  Lintell's  new  book — out 
to-day,"  he  said.  "  It  sort  of  hurts.  Two  or  three 
months  ago,  I  dropped  in  on  him  while  he  was  doing 


54  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

it.  ...  I  have  always  had  a  certain  interest  in  Lintell 
because  I  accepted  his  first  story  seven  or  eight  years 
ago,  as  a  magazine  reader.  .  .  .  You  may  not  know  that 
nine-tenths  of  the  unsolicited  fiction  material  in  a  maga 
zine's  mail  is  a  personal  affront  to  intelligence  at  large. 
Nowhere  does  a  man  show  the  youth  of  his  soul  so 
pitifully  as  when  first  alone  with  white  paper  and  an 
idea.  He  shakes  down  a  crow's  rookery  and  believes 
in  his  heart  it's  an  eagle's  nest.  That  there  are  men 
in  the  world  paid  to  open  his  package,  inspect  and 
return  same  respectfully — and  do  it  again — is  an  un 
commercial  peculiarity  of  a  most  commercial  age. 
Editors  rely  upon  the  more  or  less  technically  flawless 
products  of  the  trained,  the  "  arrived " ;  writers  who 
have  forgotten  their  dreams — rung  the  bell  once  or 
twice — and  show  a  willingness  to  take  money  for  the 
echoes. 

"  An  expensive  reading  staff  is  not  necessary  for 
these  contributors;  their  stuff  goes  to  the  heart  of 
things  at  once.  But  what  sorry  caravans  halt  in  the 
outer  courts  of  a  magazine-office;  what  sick,  empty, 
unwashed  confusion  is  impounded  there!  Yet  a  com 
pany  of  men  moves  ever  through  and  about,  peering 
into  the  unsightly,  unsavory  packs — ever  ordering  away, 
ever  clearing  the  court,  lest  the  mess  rise  to  heaven.  .  .  . 
But  perfect  pearls  have  been  found  in  these  restless, 
complaining  trash-heaps,  and  will  be  found  again.  Men 
are  there  to  glance  at  all,  because  one  of  these  pearls 
is  worth  a  whole  necklace  of  seconds.  There's  no  way 
out  of  it.  To  make  lasting  good  in  the  literary  game, 
one  must  be  steeled  to  reverses — long,  ugly  corroding 
reverses.  This  is  the  price  which  a  man  pays  for  the 


Developing  Incidents  55 

adjustment  of  his  brain  and  hand  to  the  needs  of  the 
time.  As  flesh  needs  bone,  he  needs  these  reverses. 
They  clear  the  fat  from  the  brain ;  increase  the  mental 
circuits,  and  lend  to  the  fibres  that  firm  delicacy  which 
alone  can  carry  live  hot  emotions  without  blowing  out, 
and  big  voltage  ideas  swift  and  true  to  their  appointed 
brilliance  of  expression. 

"  I'm  gabbing  a  lot,  but  I  was  going  to  tell  you 
about  Bertram  Lintell.  I  was  first  in  the  office  to  get 
his  manuscript,  and  I  raised  the  cry  of  '  Pearl.'  It 
was  faulty,  but  full  of  the  arrogance  of  unhurt  youth. 
The  face  of  Twenty-one  with  all  its  unlined  audacity 
stared  out  from  the  pages,  and  every  page  was  an 
excursion.  Here  was  a  true  sub-conscious  ebullition — 
a  hang-over  from  a  previous  incarnation,  like  as  not. 
It  was  hard,  glassy,  but  the  physical  prowess  of  it 
stimulated.  Frank,  brutal  boyishness — that  was  the 
attraction.  I  shouldn't  have  taken  it." 

"You  what?"  Paula  asked. 

"  It  was  a  shame  to  take  it,"  Reifferscheid  mused, 
"but  someone  else — the  next  man,  would  have.  You 
see,  he  needed  buffeting — seven  years  at  least.  I  knew 
he  didn't  have  the  beam  and  displacement  to  stand 
making  good  so  young.  It  was  doing  him  an  evil  turn, 
but  we  sent  him  the  brass  tag  that  shines  like  gold. 
Lintell  was  not  adult  enough  to  twig  the  counterfeit, 
not  mellowed  enough  to  realize  that  nothing  is  so  sordid, 
nothing  labeled  so  securely  to  Failure,  as  conscious  suc 
cess.  As  I  say,  I  saw  him  at  work  two  or  three  months 
ago.  He  was  a  patch-haired,  baby  lion  still,  dictating 
stories  first  draft  to  a  stenographer,  supplying  demand 
like  a  huckster — the  real  treasure-house  of  his  soul 


56  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

locked  for  life  and  the  key  thrown  away.  .  .  .  Even 
money  turns  the  head  of  the  multitude,  but  money  is 
small  beer  compared  to  the  fiery  potential  wine  of 
literary  recognition.  Long  hammering,  refining  reverses, 
alone  prepare  a  man  for  this.  Quentin  Charter  said 
something  of  the  kind:  that  a  young  writer  should  live 
his  lean  years  full  length,  and  if  he  really  craters  the 
mountain,  he  will  praise  every  god  in  the  Pantheon 
because  his  achievements  were  slow. 

"  Lintell's  present  stuff  is  insufferable.  The  point 
is  he  may  have  had  in  the  beginning  no  less  a  gift  than 
Charter's.  That's  why  the  new  book  sickens  me  so. 
...  By  the  way,  I  got  a  letter  from  Charter  this  after 
noon.  I  meant  to  bring  it  along,  but  I'll  pass  it  over 
to  you  in  the  morning.  It's  yours,  Miss  Linster,  though 
he  did  me  the  honor  to  think  that  I  had  written  his 
critique.  He  says  you  crawled  right  inside  his  book. 
We  don't  usually  answer  letters  of  this  kind.  There  are 
writers,  you  know,  glad  to  turn  a  review  office  into  an 
Admiration  Exchange.  But  you'll  want  to  write  to 
Charter,  I'm  sure.  He's  different." 

Paula  did  not  answer,  but  she  was  pleased  and  ex 
cited  that  her  review  had  been  a  joy  to  this  thunderer 
of  the  West,  and  that  he  had  answered  her  tidings  of 
high  hope  for  the  future. 


FOURTH  CHAPTER 

PAULA  ENCOUNTERS  HER  ADVERSARY   WHO  TURNS 

PROPHET  AND  TELLS  OF  A  STARRY   CHILD 

SOON  TO  BE  BORN 

PAULA  went  upstairs  to  the  editorial  rooms  with 
Reifferscheid  the  following  morning  for  Charter's  letter. 
This  she  carried  into  the  city-office  to  be  alone.  Fore 
noon  is  the  dead  time  of  a  morning  newspaper.  The 
place  seemed  still  tired  from  the  all-night  struggle  to 
spring  a  paper  to  the  streets.  She  thrust  up  a  window 
for  fresh  air  and  sat  down  in  a  reporter's  chair  to  read. 
.  .  .  The  letter  was  big  with  boyish  delight.  "  When 
a  man  spends  a  couple  of  years  growing  and  trimming 
a  pile  of  stuff  into  a  sizable  book,"  he  had  written, 
"  and  the  first  of  the  important  reviews  comes  in  with 
such  a  message  of  enthusiasm,  it  is  the  heart's  '  well- 
done  '  long  waited  for."  Beyond  this,  there  was  only 
a  line  or  two  about  the  book.  It  had  been  in  the 
publisher's  hands  six  months,  and  he  was  cold  to  it 
now.  The  States  had  interested  him,  however,  because 
there  was  an  inclination  in  the  article  to  look  at  his 
work  to  come.  In  fact,  some  of  the  thoughts  of  the 
reviewer,  he  wrote,  were  sympathetic  with  the  subject- 
matter  simmering  in  his  mind.  Naturally,  the  coincidence 
had  thrilled  him.  Charter,  believing  that  Reifferscheid 
had  done  the  work,  wrote  with  utmost  freedom. 
This  attracted  Paula,  as  it  gave  her  a  glimpse  of  a 
certain  fineness  between  men  who  admire  each  other. 
The  issue  was  not  closed.  .  .  .  She  wanted  to  answer 

67 


58  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

the  letter  then  and  there  at  the  reporter's  desk,  but 
Reifferscheid  knew  she  had  not  gone.  He  might  come 
in — and  laugh  at  her  precipitation. 

After  a  night  of  perfect  rest,  Paula's  mind  was 
animated  with  thoughts  of  work — until  she  reached  the 
Zoroaster.  Something  of  Bellingham's  tormenting  en 
ergy  was  heavy  in  the  atmosphere  of  her  rooms.  When 
passing  the  full-length  mirror,  she  turned  her  face  away 
in  fear.  Impatiently  she  caught  up  one  of  the  new  books 
(and  Charter's  letter  for  a  marker),  and  hurried  across 
to  the  Park.  The  fall  days  were  still  flawless. 

It  was  not  yet  ten  in  the  morning,  and  few  people 
were  abroad.  She  sat  down  upon  one  of  the  weathered 
knobs  of  Manhattan  rock  which  had  worn  through  the 
thin  skin  of  soil,  and  allowed  herself  to  think  of  the 
formidable  affliction.  To  all  intents,  the  magician  had 
dispossessed  her  of  the  rooms,  identified  for  years  with 
her  personality  and  no  other.  She  could  not  put  away 
the  truth  that  the  full  forces  of  her  mind  were  at  bay 
before  the  psychic  advances  of  the  dreadful  stranger. 
This  was  not  long  to  be  endured.  Inasmuch  that  his 
power  did  not  harmlessly  glance  from  her,  she  felt 
that  there  must  be  great  potentialities  of  evil  within 
herself.  This  conviction  made  her  frightened  and  des 
perate.  She  should  have  known  that  it  was  her  inner 
development,  her  sensitiveness  which  had  made  her  so 
potent  an  attraction  for  Bellingham.  The  substance  of 
her  whole  terror  was  that  there  had  been  moments  under 
his  spell,  when  she  had  not  been  at  all  the  mistress  of 
her  own  will. 

The  suggestions  which  he  projected  had  seemed  to 
her  the  good  and  proper  actions.  She  knew  it  as  a 


The  Starry  Child  59 

law — that  every  time  her  own  divine  right  to  the  rule 
of  her  faculties  was  thus  usurped  by  an  evil  force, 
her  resistance  was  weakened.  Yet  there  was  a  shock 
ing  unfairness  in  the  thought  that  she  was  not  given  a 
chance.  In  the  throne-room  of  her  mind,  she  was  not 
queen.  All  the  sacred  fortifications  of  self  seemed 
broken,  even  the  soul's  integrity  debased,  when  Belling- 
ham  crushed  his  way  in  and  forced  her  to  obey.  This 
is  the  great  psychological  crime.  When  one  has  broken 
into  the  sacred  precincts,  the  door  is  left  open  for  other 
malignant,  earth-bound  entities  foully  to  enter  and  be 
tray.  .  .  . 

There  was  no  one  in  whom  she  could  confide,  but 
Madame  Nestor.  Almost  any  professional  man,  a  phy 
sician  especially,  would  have  called  her  revelations 
hysterical.  .  .  .  Her  constant  and  growing  fear  was  of 
the  time  when  she  should  be  called  by  Bellingham — 
and  nothing  would  supervene  to  save  her.  Some  time 
the  spell  might  not  be  broken.  She  became  ill  with 
tension  and  shame  as  this  unspeakable  possibility  seethed 
through  her  mind.  .  .  .  Better  death  than  to  continue 
in  being  passion-ridden  by  this  defiler,  in  the  presence 
of  whom  she  became  so  loathsome  in  her  own  sight — 
that  she  dared  not  pray.  .  .  . 

Somewhere  far  off  children  were  talking.  Their 
voices  warmed  and  cleansed  her  mind.  There  was  a 
stimulating  thud  of  hoofs  on  the  turf-roads.  She 
tried  to  read  now.  Her  eyes  travelled  dutifully  along 
the  lines  of  her  book,  without  bringing  forth  even  the 
phase  of  a  thought  from  the  page  of  print.  A  swift  step 
drew  her  glance  down  the  foot-path.  Bellingham  was 
approaching.  His  shoulders  were  thrown  back,  his  long 


60  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

arms  swinging  so  that  every  muscle  was  in  play,  striding 
forward  at  incredible  speed.  He  filled  his  lungs  with 
every  cubic  inch  of  morning  air  they  could  contain,  and 
expelled  the  volume  with  gusto.  She  had  once  seen  a 
rugged  Englishman  take  his  exercise  as  seriously  as 
this,  on  the  promenade  of  an  Atlantic  liner  before  the 
breakfast-gong.  To  all  appearances,  Bellingham  did  not 
have  a  thought  apart  from  his  constitutional. 

Paula  sat  very  still  on  the  rock.  Her  slightest 
movement  now  would  attract  his  attention.  It  occurred 
to  her  afterwards  that  she  had  been  like  a  crippled 
squirrel  huddled  in  the  fork  of  a  tree — the  hunter  and 
his  dog  below.  .  .  . 

At  the  point  where  the  path  was  nearest  her,  he 
halted.  The  thing  happened  exactly  as  she  might  have 
conceived  it  in  a  story.  For  a  moment  he  seemed  to 
be  searching  his  mind  for  the  meaning  of  his  impulse 
to  stop.  An  unforgettable  figure,  this,  as  he  stood  there 
with  lifted  head,  concentrating  upon  the  vagary  which 
had  brought  him  to  a  standstill.  .  .  .  Paula  may  have 
been  mistaken  in  her  terror,  but  she  never  relinquished 
the  thought  that  her  proximity  was  known  to  him — 
before  his  face  turned  unerringly  to  the  rock  and  his 
bright  gray  eyes  filled  with  her  presence. 

"You  are  Miss  Linster?"  he  asked,  smiling  agree 
ably. 

She  nodded,  not  trusting  her  voice. 

"  You  attended  the  first  of  my  Prismatic  Hall  lectures 
ten  days  ago?  ...  I  seldom  forget  a  face,  and  I  re 
member  asking  one  of  my  committee  your  name." 

Paula  found  it  rather  a  unique  effort  to  hold  in 
mind  the  truth  that  she  had  never  spoken  to  this  man 


The  Starry  Cluld  61 

before.  Then  the  whole  trend  of  her  mental  activity 
was  suddenly  complicated  by  the  thought  that  all  her 
past  terrors  might  be  groundless.  Possibly  Madame 
Nestor  was  insane  on  this  subject.  "  It  may  be  that 
her  mad  words  and  my  stimulated  imagination  have 
reared  a  monster  that  has  no  actuality." 

The  bracing  voices  of  the  children,  the  brilliance  of 
mid-forenoon,  the  man's  kingly  figure,  agreeable  cour 
tesy,  and  commanding  health — indeed,  apart  from  the 
eyes  in  which  she  hardly  dared  to  glance,  there  was 
nothing  to  connect  him  even  vaguely  with  the  sinister 
persecutions  which  bore  his  image.  The  whole  world- 
mind  was  with  him.  What  right  had  she  to  say  that 
the  world-mind  was  in  error  and  she  normal — she  and 
the  unreckonable  Madame  Nestor?  .  .  .  Paula  recalled 
the  strange  intensity  of  her  mental  life  for  years,  and  the 
largeness  of  her  solitudes.  The  world-mind  would  say 
she  was  beside  herself  from  much  study.  .  .  .  More  than 
all,  no  power  was  exerted  upon  her  now.  Who  would 
believe  that  this  Bellingham,  with  miles  of  the  metropolis 
between  them,  had  repeatedly  over-ridden  her  volition, 
when  she  felt  no  threatening  influence  at  the  present 
moment,  almost  within  his  reach — only  the  innate  re 
pulsion  and  the  fear  of  her  fears? 

"  I  hope  to  see  you  again  at  the  meetings,  Miss 
Linster." 

"  They  do  not  attract  me." 

"  That  is  important,  if  unpleasant  to  learn,"  he  re 
marked,  as  if  genuinely  perturbed.  "  I  have  been  study 
ing  for  a  long  time,  and  perhaps  I  have  taken  a  round 
about  road  to  discovery.  It  is  quite  possible  that  the 
values  of  my  instruction  are  over-estimated  by  many. 


62  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

...  Do  you  mind  if  I  sit  down  a  moment?  I  have 
walked  a  hundred  squares  and  will  start  back  from 
here."  From  his  manner  it  was  impossible  to  imagine 
irony  covert  in  his  humbleness. 

"  Certainly  not,  though  I  must  return  to  my  apart 
ment  in  a  moment.  ...  I  did  not  like  the  atmosphere 
— the  audience — that  first  night,"  Paula  added. 

"  Nor  did  I,  altogether,"  he  said  quickly.  "  But  how 
can  one  choose  the  real,  if  all  are  not  admitted  at  first? 
With  each  lecture  you  will  find  a  more  select  company, 
and  there  will  be  very  few  when  the  actual  message  is 
unfolded." 

He  glanced  away  as  if  to  determine  the  exact  point 
through  the  trees  from  which  the  children's  voices  came. 
His  profile  was  unquestionably  that  of  an  aristocrat. 
The  carriage  of  his  head,  the  wonderful  development 
of  his  figure,  his  voice  and  the  gentle  temper  of  his 
answers,  even  the  cut  of  his  coat  and  the  elegance  of  his 
shoes  suggested  an  unconscious  and  invariable  refine 
ment  which  controverted  the  horror  he  had  once  seemed. 

"  It  may  be  that  I  am  not  quite  like  other  people," 
she  said,  "  but  I  cannot  think  of  physical  perfection  as 
the  first  aim  in  life." 

"  Nor  can  I,"  he  answered ;  "  still  I  think  that  after 
the  elimination  of  poisons  from  the  physical  organism, 
one's  mental  and  spiritual  powers  are  quickened  and 
freer  to  develop." 

"  Do  you  always  shape  your  philosophy  to  meet  the 
objections  of  your  disciples — so?" 

"  You  are  stimulating,  Miss  Linster,  but  I  have 
made  no  concession  to  adapt  myself  to  your  views.  I 
only  declared  that  I  weed  out  my  classes  before  real 


The  Starry  Child  63 

work  begins,  and  that  physical  disease  retards  mental 
growth.  I  might  add  that  I  do  not  lecture  for  money." 

"  Why  do  you  teach  only  women  ?  " 

"  There  are  several  reasons,"  he  replied  readily 
enough.  "  I  have  found  that  a  mixed  audience  is  not 
receptive ;  there  is  a  self-consciousness,  sometimes 
worse,  something  of  a  scoffing  spirit,  which  breaks  the 
point  of  my  appeal.  Women  are  aroused  to  interest 
when  a  man  appeals  directly  to  them.  They  do  not 
like  to  betray  a  profound  interest  in  any  subject  apart 
from  the  household — when  their  lords  are  present.  Man 
instinctively  combats  any  source  which  tends  toward 
mental  emancipation  on  the  part  of  women.  It  is  only 
a  few  decades  ago  that  women  were  forced  to  abide 
entirely  within  their  domestic  circle.  Instead  of  using 
a  superior  physical  strength  now  to  keep  her  there, 
man's  tendency  is  to  ridicule  her  outside  interests.  So 
I  have  found  that  women  prefer  to  study  alone/' 

Bellingham  answered  thus  circuitously,  but  his  man 
ner  suggested  that  he  was  grateful  for  the  inquiry, 
since  it  gave  him  an  opportunity  to  express  matters 
which  had  only  been  half-formed  in  his  mind.  Paula, 
whose  every  question  had  come  from  an  inclination  to 
confound  him,  began  to  realize  that  the  spirit  was  un 
worthy  and  partook  of  impertinence. 

"  I  believe  in  automatic  health,"  she  said  impatiently. 
"  It  seems  to  me  that  refinement  means  this :  that  in 
real  fineness  all  such  things  are  managed  with  a  sort 
of  unconscious  art.  For  instance,  I  should  not  have 
health  at  the  price  of  walking  twice  a  hundred  blocks 
in  a  forenoon " 

"  The  point  is  eminently  reasonable,  Miss  Linster," 


64  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

Bellingham  remarked  with  a  smile.  "  But  what  I  find 
it  well  to  do,  I  rarely  advise  for  others.  I  am  from 
a  stock  of  powerful  physical  men.  My  fathers  were 
sailors  and  fishermen.  They  gave  me  an  organism  which 
weakens  if  I  neglect  exercise,  and  I  seem  to  require 
about  five  times  as  much  physical  activity  as  many  men 
of  the  present  generation.  I  have  absolutely  no  use  for 
this  tremendous  muscular  strength;  in  fact,  I  should 
gladly  be  less  strong  if  it  could  be  accomplished  without 
a  general  deterioration.  The  point  is,  that  a  man  with 
three  or  four  generations  of  gentle-folk  behind  him,  can 
keep  in  a  state  of  glowing  health  at  the  expense  of 
about  one-fifth  the  physical  energy  that  I  burn — who 
come  from  rough  men  of  mighty  outdoor  labors." 

This  was  very  reasonable,  except  that  he  seemed 
far  removed  in  nature  from  the  men  of  boats  and 
beaches.  She  had  dared  to  glance  into  his  face  as  he 
spoke,  and  found  an  impression  from  the  diamond  hard 
ness  of  his  eyes,  entirely  different  from  that  which  came 
through  listening  merely.  But  for  this  glance,  it  never 
would  have  occurred  to  her,  that  her  questions  had 
stretched  his  faculties  to  the  slightest  tension.  She 
would  have  arisen  to  go  now,  but  he  resumed : 

"  I  cannot  bear  to  have  you  think  that  my  energies 
are  directed  entirely  in  the  interests  of  lifting  the  stand 
ards  of  health,  Miss  Linster.  Really,  this  is  but  a  small 
part  of  preparation.  It  was  only  because  I  felt  you 
ready  for  the  important  truths — that  I  regretted  your 
absence  after  the  first  night.  Do  you  know  that  we  live 
in  the  time  of  a  spiritual  high-tide?  It  is  clear  to  me 
that  the  whole  race  is  lifting  with  a  wonderful  inner 
animation.  In  the  next  quarter  of  a  century  great 


The  Starry  ChHd  65 

mystic  voices  shall  be  heard.  And  there  shall  be  One 
above  all.  ...  I  tell  you  people  are  breaking  down  under 
the  tyranny  of  their  material  possessions.  After  desire — 
comes  the  burden  of  holding.  We  are  approaching  the 
great  ennui  which  Carlyle  prophesied.  There  is  no 
longer  a  gospel  of  materialism.  The  great  English  and 
German  teachers  whose  work  was  regarded  as  supreme 
philosophy  by  the  people  ten  years  ago,  are  shown  to 
be  pitiful  failures  in  our  colleges  to-day — or  at  best, 
specialists  of  one  particular  stage  of  evolution,  who 
made  the  mistake  of  preaching  that  their  little  division 
in  the  great  cosmic  line  was  the  whole  road.  Materialism 
died  out  of  Germany  a  few  years  ago — with  a  great 
shock  cf  suicide.  The  mystics  are  teaching  her  now. 
I  assure  you  the  dawn  is  breaking  for  a  great  spiritual 
day  such  as  the  world  has  never  seen.  Soon  a  great 
light  shall  cover  the  nations  and  evil  shall  crawl  into 
the  holes  of  the  earth  where  it  is  dark.  .  .  .  There  is 
shortly  to  be  born  into  the  world — a  glorious  Child. 
While  He  is  growing  to  celestial  manhood — New  Voices 
shall  rise  here  and  everywhere  preparing  the  way.  One 
of  these  New  Voices — one  of  the  very  least  of  these — 
is  Bellingham  to  whom  you  listen  so  impatiently." 

Every  venture  into  the  occult  had  whispered  this 
Child-promise  in  Paula's  ears.  There  was  such  a  con 
certed  understanding  of  this  revelation  among  the  cults, 
that  the  thought  had  come  to  her  that  perhaps  this  was 
a  delusion  of  every  age.  Yet  she  had  seen  a  Hindu 
record  dated  a  hundred  years  before,  prophesying  the 
birth  of  a  Superman  in  the  early  years  of  the  Twentieth 
Century.  There  was  scarcely  a  division  among  the 
astrologers  on  this  one  point.  She  had  even  been  con- 
5 


66  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

scious  in  the  solitudes  of  her  own  life  of  a  certain 
mystic  confidence  of  such  a  fulfillment.  .  .  .  She  dared 
not  look  into  Bellingham's  face  at  such  a  moment.  The 
ghastly  phase  of  the  whole  matter  was  to  hear  this 
prophecy  repeated  by  one  to  whom  the  illustrious  pros 
pect  (if  he  were,  as  she  had  believed)  could  become  only 
an  awful  illumination  of  the  hell  to  which  he  was  con 
demned.  It  was — only  unspeakably  worse — like  hear 
ing  a  parrot  croak,  "  Feed  our  souls  with  the  bread 
of  life ! "  .  .  .  Paula  stirred  in  her  seat,  and  Charter's 
letter  dropped  from  the  book  in  her  lap.  She  seized  it 
with  a  rush  of  grateful  emotion.  It  was  a  stanchion  in 
her  mind  now  filled  with  turbulence. 

"  There  never  was  a  time  when  woman's  intelligence 
was  so  eager  and  rational;  never  a  time,"  Bellingham 
went  on,  "  when  men  were  so  tired  of  metals  and  meals 
and  miles.  The  groan  for  the  Absolutely  New,  for  the 
utmost  in  sense  and  the  weirdest  of  sensations,  for 
speed  to  cover  distances  and  to  overcome  every  obstacle, 
even  thin  air — all  these  express  the  great  weariness  of 
the  flesh  and  make  clear  to  the  prophetic  understanding 
that  man  is  nearing  the  end  of  his  lessons  in  three  dimen 
sions  and  five  senses.  There  is  a  stirring  of  the  spirit- 
captive  in  the  worn  mesh  of  the  body." 

The  woman  traced  her  name  with  her  forefinger 
upon  the  cover  of  the  book  in  her  lap;  again 
and  again,  "  Paula — Paula — Paula."  It  was  a  habit 
she  had  not  remembered  for  years.  As  a  little 
girl  when  she  fought  against  being  persuaded  con 
trary  to  her  will,  she  would  hold  herself  in  hand  thus, 
by  wriggling  "  Paula  "  anywhere.  All  that  Bellingham 
said  was  artfully  calculated  to  inspire  her  with  hope 


The  Starry  Child  67 

and  joy  in  the  world.  So  marvelously  were  the  words 
designed  to  carry  her  high  in  happiness,  that  there  was 
a  corresponding  tension  of  terror  in  remembering  that 
Bellingham  uttered  them.  Yet  she  would  have  felt 
like  a  lump  of  clay  had  she  not  told  him: 

"  What  you  say  is  very  wonderful  to  me." 

"  And  it  is  the  women  who  are  most  sensitive  to 
the  Light — women  who  are  already  unfolding  in  the 
rays,  yet  so  far-flung  and  dim."  Bellingham's  voice 
was  a  quick  emotionless  monotone.  "  Perhaps  you  have 
noted  the  great  amalgamation  of  clubs  and  classes  of 
women  which  each  year  turns  its  power  to  more  direct 
effort  and  valuable  study.  Another  thing,  let  the  word 
Genius  be  whispered  about  any  child  or  youth,  and  he 
becomes  at  once  the  darling  of  rich  matrons.  What  does 
this  mean — this  desire  of  woman  to  bring  out  the  latent 
powers  of  a  stranger's  child?  This  veiled,  beautiful 
quality  is  the  surest  sign  of  all.  It  is  the  spirit  of 
Rebecca — which,  even  in  the  grief  for  her  own  dead 
babe,  turns  thrillingly  to  mother  a  wayfarer's  Starry 
Child.  Verily,  when  a  woman  begins  to  dream  about 
bringing  prophets  into  the  world — the  giants  of  those 
other  days  are  close  to  her,  crowding  closer,  eager  to  be 
born  again." 

Paula  turned  to  him  and  arose.  His  face  was  not 
kindled.  It  was  as  if  he  were  an  actor  reading  lines 
to  memorize,  not  yet  trying  to  simulate  the  contained 
emotions.  There  is  a  glow  of  countenance  where  fine 
thought-force  is  in  action,  but  Bellingham's  face  was 
not  lit  with  the  expiration  of  mind-energy,  though  his 
eyes  glittered  with  set,  bird-like  brightness. 

"  I  must  hurry  away  now,"  she  told  him  hastily. 
"  I  must  think  upon  what  you  have  said." 


68  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

"  I  truly  wish,"  he  added  softly,  and  with  a  kindness 
she  felt,  because  her  eyes  were  turned  from  him,  "  that 
you  would  join  one  of  my  wiser  classes.  You  would 
be  an  inspiration.  Besides,  the  little  things  that  have 
been  given  me  to  tell — should  be  known  by  the  very 
few  who  have  reached  your  degree  of  evolution." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  faltered.    "  I  must  think." 

"  Good-by,  Miss  Linster." 

Reaching  the  street  in  front  of  her  apartment  house, 
she  turned  just  in  time  to  see  him  disappear  among 
the  trees.  He  strode  forward  as  if  this  were  his  world, 
and  his  days  had  been  a  continuous  pageant  of  victories. 
.  .  .  Her  rooms  were  all  cleared  of  disorder,  her  mind 
refreshed  and  stimulated.  .  .  .  That  night  between  eleven 
and  twelve  she  was  writing  to  Charter.  There  were 
a  half  dozen  penned  pages  before  her,  and  a  smile  on 
her  lips.  She  poured  out  a  full  heart  to  the  big  Western 
figure  of  cleanliness  and  strength — wrote  to  the  man 
she  wanted  him  to  be.  ...  The  day  had  been  strange 
and  expanding.  She  had  suffered  no  evil.  The  thoughts 
remaining  with  her  from  the  talk  in  the  Park  were 
large  with  significance,  and  they  had  cleared  slowly 
from  the  murkiness  of  their  source.  These,  and  the 
ideal  of  manhood  she  was  building  out  of  Charter's 
book  and  letter  and  Reifferscheid's  little  sketch  of  him, 
had  made  the  hours  rich  with  healing.  She  was  tired 
but  steady-nerved  as  she  wrote.  .  .  .  There  was  a  faint 
tapping  at  her  hall-door. 


FIFTH  CHAPTER 

PAULA  IS  INVOLVED  IN  THE  FURIOUS  HISTORY 

OF  SELMA  CROSS  AND  WRITES  A  LETTER 

TO  QUENTIN  CHARTER 

PAULA  thrust  the  sheets  of  the  letter  in  her  desk 
drawer  and  admitted  Selma  Cross,  an  actress  whose 
apartment  was  across  the  hall.  These  two  had  chatted 
together  many  times,  sometimes  intimately.  Each  had 
found  the  other  interesting.  Hints  of  a  past  that  was 
almost  classic  in  the  fury  of  its  struggle  for  publicity, 
had  repeatedly  come  to  Paula's  ears,  with  other  matters 
she  greatly  would  have  preferred  not  to  hear.  Selma 
Cross  was  huge  to  look  upon,  and  at  first  thought  with 
out  grace.  There  was  something  uncanny  in  her  face 
and  movements,  and  an  extraordinary  breadth  between 
her  yellow  eyes  which  were  wide-lidded,  slow-moving 
and  ever-changing.  She  was  but  little  past  thirty,  yet 
the  crowded  traffic  of  her  years  was  intricately  marked. 

"  I  saw  the  light  under  your  door,  and  felt  like 
coming  in  for  a  few  minutes,"  she  said.  "  I  must  talk 
to  some  one  and  my  maid,  Dimity,  is  snoring.  You  see, 
I'm  celebrating  for  two  reasons." 

"  Tell  me,  so  I  can  help,"  Paula  answered. 

"  Vhruebert  has  taken  a  play  for  me.  You  know, 
I've  been  begging  him  to  for  months.  The  play  was 
made  for  me — not  that  it  was  written  with  me  in  mind, 
but  that  I  just  suit  it.  Selma  Cross  is  to  be  carved 
in  light  over  a  theatre-entrance,  twenty  seconds  from 
Broadway — next  April.  It  will  be  at  the  Herriot — 

69 


70  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

Vhruebert's  theatre.  We  run  through  Hartford,  Spring 
field,  Rochester  and  that  string  of  second  cities  earlier 
in  the  Spring." 

Paula  rose  and  gave  both  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  for  you,"  she  said.  "  I  know 
something  about  how  you  have  worked  for  this " 

"  Yes,  and  the  play  is  The  Thing.  I  am  an  ugly 
slaving  drudge,  but  have  all  the  emotions  that  the  sweet 
ingenue  of  the  piece  should  have,  and  the  audience 
watches  me  deliver.  Yes,  I've  waited  long  for  this, 
and  yet  I'm  not  so  glad  as  I  thought  I  should  be. 
I've  been  pretty  sure  of  it  for  the  last  year  or  two.  I 
said  I  was  celebrating  for  two  things " 

"  Pray,  what  is  the  other?  " 

"  I  forget  that  it  might  not  interest  you — though  it 
certainly  does  me,"  Selma  Cross  said  with  a  queer,  low 
laugh.  ..."  He  wasn't  ugly  about  it,  but  he  has  been 
exacting — ugh!  The  fact  is,  I  have  earned  the  privilege 
at  last  of  sleeping  in  my  own  respectable  apartment." 

Paula  couldn't  help  shivering  a  bit.  "  You  mean 
you  have  left  your " 

"  Oh,  he  wasn't  my  husband.  .  .  .  It's  such  a  luxury 
to  pay  for  your  own  things — for  your  own  house  and 
clothes  and  dinners — to  earn  a  dollar  for  every  need  and 
one  to  put  away.  .  .  .  You  didn't  think  that  I  could  get 
my  name  above  the  name  of  a  play — without  an  angel  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  know,"  Paula  said.  "  I  saw  you  with 
him  often.  It  didn't  exactly  occur  to  me  that  he  was 
your  husband,  because  he  didn't  come  here.  But  do 
you  mean  that  now  when  you  don't  need  him  any  longer 
—you  told  him  to  go  away  ?  " 

"Just  that — except  it  isn't  at  all  as  it  looks.     You 


An  Actress's  Heart  71 

wouldn't  pity  old  man  Villiers.  Living  God,  that's 
humorous — after  what  I  have  given.  Don't  look  for 
wings  on  theatrical  angels,  dear." 

It  was  plain  that  the  woman  was  utterly  tired.  She 
regarded  Paula  with  a  queer  expression  of  embarrass 
ment,  and  there  was  a  look  of  harsh  self-repression  under 
the  now-drooped  eyelids. 

"  I  don't  apologize,"  she  went  on  hastily.  "  What 
I  have  done,  I  would  do  again — only  earlier  in  the  game, 
but  you're  the  sort  of  woman  I  don't  like  to  have  look 
at  me  that — I  mean  look  down  upon  me.  I  haven't 
many  friends.  I  think  I  must  be  half  wild,  but  you 
make  the  grade  that  I  have — and  you  pay  the  price.  .  .  . 
You've  always  looked  attractive  to  me — so  easy  and 
finished  and  out  of  the  ruck." 

There  was  a  real  warming  sincerity  in  the  words. 
Paula  divined  on  the  instant  that  she  could  forever  check 
an  intimacy — by  a  word  which  would  betray  the  depth 
of  her  abhorrence  for  such  a  concession  to  ambition, 
and  for  the  life  which  seems  to  demand  it.  Selma  Cross 
was  sick  for  a  friend,  sick  from  containing  herself.  On 
this  night  of  achievement  there  was  something  pitiful 
in  the  need  of  her  heart. 

"  New  York  has  turned  rather  too  many  pages  of 
life  before  my  eyes,  Selma,  for  me  to  feel  far  above 
any  one  whose  struggles  I  have  not  endured." 

The  other  leaned  forward  eagerly.  "  I  liked  you 
from  the  first  moment,  Paula,"  she  said.  "  You  were 
so  rounded — it  seemed  to  me.  Pm  all  streaky,  all  one 
sided.  You're  bred.  Pm  cattle.  .  .  .  Some  time  Pll 
tell  you  how  it  all  began.  I  said  I  would  be  the  greatest 
living  tragedienne — hurled  this  at  a  lot  of  cat-minds 


72  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

down  in  Kentucky  fifteen  years  ago.  Of  course,  I  shall. 
It  does  not  mean  so  much  to  me  as  I  thought,  and  it 
may  be  a  bauble  to  you,  but  I  wanted  it.  Its  far-away 
ness  doesn't  torture  me  as  it  once  did,  but  one  pays  a 
ghastly  price.  Yes,  it's  a  climb,  dear.  You  must  have 
bone  and  blood  and  brain — a  sort  of  brain — and  you 
should  have  a  cheer  from  below ;  but  I  didn't.  I  wonder 
if  there  ever  was  a  fight  that  can  match  mine?  If  so, 
it  would  not  be  a  good  tale  for  children  or  grown-ups 
with  delicate  nerves.  Little  women  always  hated  me. 
I  remember,  one  restaurant  cashier  on  Eighth  Avenue 
told  me  I  was  too  unsightly  to  be  a  waitress.  I  have 
done  kitchen  pot-boilers  and  scrubbed  tenement-stairs. 
Then,  because  I  repeated  parts  of  plays  in  those  horrid 
halls — they  said  I  was  crazy.  .  .  .  Why,  I  have  felt  a 
perfect  lust  for  suicide — felt  my  breast  ache  for  a  cool 
knife  and  my  hand  rise  gladly.  Once  I  played  a  freak 
part — that  was  my  greater  degradation — debased  my 
soul  by  making  my  body  look  worse  than  it  is.  I  went 
down  to  hell  for  that — and  was  forgiven.  I  have  been 
so  homesick,  Paula,  that  I  could  have  eaten  the  dirt  in  the 
road  of  that  little  Kentucky  town.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  pressed 
against  the  steel  until  something  broke — it  was  the  steel, 
not  me.  Oh,  I  could  tell  you  much !  "  .  .  . 

She  paused  but  a  moment. 

"  The  thing  so  dreadful  to  overcome  was  that  I 
have  a  body  like  a  great  Dane.  It  would  not  have  hurt 
a  writer,  a  painter,  even  a  singer,  so  much,  but  we  of 
the  drama  are  so  dependent  upon  the  shape  of  our  bodies. 
Then,  my  face  is  like  a  dog  or  a  horse  or  a  cat — all  these 
I  have  been  likened  to.  Then  I  was  slow  to  learn  re 
pression.  This  is  a  part  of  culture,  I  guess — breeding. 


An  Actress's  Heart  73 

Mine  is  a  lineage  of  Kentucky  poor  white  trash,  who 
knows,  but  a  speck  of  '  nigger '  ?  I  don't  care  now, 
only  it  gave  me  a  temper  of  seven  devils,  if  it  was  so. 
These  are  some  of  the  things  I  have  contended  with. 
I  would  go  to  a  manager  and  he  would  laugh  me  along, 
trying  to  get  rid  of  me  gracefully,  thinking  that  some 
of  his  friends  were  playing  a  practical  joke  on  him. 
Vhruebert  thought  that  at  first.  Vhruebert  calls  me  The 
Thing  now.  I  could  have  done  better  had  I  been  a 
cripple;  there  are  parts  for  a  cripple.  And  you  watch, 
Paula,  next  January  when  I  burn  up  things  here,  they'll 
say  my  success  is  largely  due  to  my  figure  and  face !  " 

As  she  looked  and  listened,  Paula  saw  great  mean 
ings  in  the  broad  big  countenance,  a  sort  of  ruffian 
strength  to  carry  this  perfecting  instrument  of  emotion. 
The  great  body  was  needed  to  support  such  talents, 
handicapped  by  the  lack  of  beauty.  Selma  Cross  fas 
cinated  her.  Paula's  heart  went  out  to  the  great  crude 
creature  she  had  been — in  pity  for  this  woman  of 
furious  history.  The  processes  by  which  her  brain  and 
flesh  had  been  refined  would  have  slain  the  body  and 
mind  of  an  ordinary  human.  It  came  to  Paula  that 
here  was  one  of  Mother  Nature's  most  enthralling  ex 
periments — the  evolution  of  an  effective  instrument  from 
the  coarsest  and  vaguest  heredity. 

"  They  are  all  brainless  but  Vhruebert.  You  see, 
unless  one  is  a  beauty,  you  can't  get  the  support  of 
a  big  manager's  name.  I  mean  without  money — there 
are  managers  who  will  lend  their  name  to  your  stardom, 
if  you  take  the  financial  risk.  Otherwise,  you've  got 
to  attract  them  as  a  possible  conquest.  All  men  are  like 
that.  If  you  interest  them  sexually — they  will  hear  what 
you  have  to  say " 


74  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

"  Isn't  that  a  reckless  talk  ? "  Paula  asked,  pale 
from  the  repulsiveness  of  the  thougnt  "  You  say  it 
without  a  single  qualification " 

Selma  Cross  stared  at  her  vacantly  for  a  few  seconds, 
then  laughed  softly.  "  You  don't  actually  believe — to 
the  contrary  ?  " 

"  Let's  pass  it  by.  I  should  have  to  be  changed — 
to  believe  that !  " 

"  I  hope  the  time  will  never  come  when  you  need 
something  terribly  from  a  strange  man — one  upon  whom 
you  have  no  hold  but — yourself.  .  .  .  Ah,  but  you — 
the  brighter  sort  would  give  you  what  you  asked. 
You " 

"  Please  don't  go  on !  "  Paula  whispered.  "  The  other 
part  is  so  interesting." 

Selma  Cross  seemed  to  stir  restlessly  in  her  loose, 
softly-scented  garments.  "  I  suppose  I'm  too  rough  for 
you.  In  ninety-nine  women  out  of  a  hundred,  I'd  say 
your  protest  was  a  cheap  affectation,  but  it  isn't  so  with 
you.  .  .  ." 

"  It's  your  set,  smothery  pessimism  that  hurts  so, 
Selma,"  Paula  declared  intensely.  "  It  hurts  me  most 
because  you  seem  to  have  it  so  locked  and  immovable 
inside.  .  .  .  You  have  been  so  big  and  wonderful  to 
win  against  tremendous  obstacles — not  against  ugliness 
— I  can't  grant  that.  You  startled  me,  when  I  saw  you 
first.  I  think  women  have  held  you  apart  because  you 
were  uncommon.  You  show  a  strange  power  in  your 
movements  and  expression.  It's  not  ugliness " 

"  That's  mighty  rare  of  you.  I  haven't  had  the 
pleasure  of  being  defined  like  that  before.  But  you  are 
not  like  other  people — not  like  other  women." 


An  Actress's  Heart  75 

"  You  will  meet  many  real  men  and  women — wiser 
and  kinder  than  I  am.  I  think  your  pessimism  cannot 
endure — when  you  look  for  the  good  in  people " 

"  The  kind  I  have  known  would  not  let  me.  They're 
just  as  hateful  now — I  mean  the  stuffy  dolls  of  the 
stage — just  as  hateful,  calling  me  '  dear  '  and  '  love  ' 
and  saying,  '  How  tremendous  you  are,  Selma  Cross ! ' 
.  .  .  Listen,  it  is  only  a  little  while  ago  that  the  same 
women  used  to  ask  me  to  walk  on  Broadway  with 
them — to  use  me  as  a  foil  for  their  baby  faces!  Oh, 
women  are  horrible — dusty  shavings  inside — and  men 
are  of  the  same  family." 

"  You  poor,  dear  unfortunate — not  to  know  the  really 
wonderful  kind!  You  are  worn  to  the  bone  from  win 
ning  your  victory,  but  when  you're  rested,  you'll  be 
able  to  see  the  beautiful — clearly." 

"  One  only  knows  as  far  as  one  can  see." 

This  sentence  was  a  shock  to  Paula's  intelligence. 
It  was  spoken  without  consciousness  of  the  meaning 
which  drove  so  deep  into  the  other's  mind.  It  suggested 
a  mind  dependent  altogether  upon  physical  eyes.  Paula 
refused  to  believe  that  this  was  the  key  to  the  whole 
matter. 

"  They  have  been  so  cruel  to  me — those  female  things 
which  bloom  a  year,"  Selma  Cross  continued.  "  Flesh- 
flowers!  They  harried  me  to  martyrdom.  I  had  to 
hate  them,  because  I  was  forced  to  be  one  with  them — 
I,  a  big  savage,  dreaming  unutterable  things.  It's  all 
so  close  yet,  I  haven't  come  to  pity  them.  .  .  .  Maybe 
you  can  tell  me  what  good  they  are — what  they  mean  in 
the  world — the  shallow,  brainless  things  who  make  the 
stage  full!  They  are  in  factories,  too,  everywhere — 


76  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

daughters  of  the  coolies  and  peasants  of  Europe — only 
worse  over  here  because  their  fathers  have  lost  their 
low  fixed  place  in  society,  and  are  all  mixed  in  their  dim, 
brute  minds.  They  have  no  one  to  rule  them.  You 
will  see  a  family  of  dirty,  frightened,  low-minded  chil 
dren — the  eldest,  say  a  girl  of  fifteen.  A  dog  or  a  cat 
with  a  good  home  is  rich  beside  them.  Take  this  eldest 
girl  of  a  brood — with  all  the  filth  of  foreign  New  York 
in  and  about  her.  She  is  fifteen  and  ready  for  the 
streets.  It  is  the  year  of  her  miracle.  I've  seen  it  a 
score  of  times.  You  miss  her  a  few  months  and  she 
appears  again  at  work  somewhere — her  face  decently 
clean,  her  eyes  clear,  a  bit  of  bright  ribbon  and  a  gown 
wrung  somewhere  from  the  beds  of  torture.  It  is  her 
brief  bloom — so  horrid  to  look  at  when  you  know  what 
it  means.  All  the  fifteen  years  of  squalor,  evil,  and  low- 
mindedness  for  this  one  year — a  bloom-girl  out  of  the 
dirt!  And  the  next,  she  has  fallen  back,  unwashed, 
high-voiced,  hardening,  stiffening, — a  babe  at  her  breast, 
dull  hell  in  her  heart.  All  her  living  before  and  to  come 
— for  that  one  bloom  year.  Maybe  you  can  tell  me 
what  the  big  purpose  of  it  all  is.  Earth  uses  them 
quite  as  ruthlessly  as  any  weed  or  flower — gives  them  a 
year  to  bloom,  not  for  beauty,  but  that  more  crude  seeds 
may  be  scattered.  Perpetuate!  Flowers  bloom  to  catch 
a  bug — such  girls,  to  catch  a  man — perpetuate — oh  God, 
what  for?  And  these  things  have  laughed  at  me  in 
the  chorus,  called  me  '  Crazy  Sal/  because  I  spoke  of 
things  they  never  dreamed." 

"  Yes,"  Paula  said  quickly,  "  I've  seen  something 
like  that.  How  you  will  pity  them  when  you  are  rested ! 
It  is  hard  for  us  to  understand  why  such  numbers  are 


An  Actress's  Heart  77 

sacrificed  like  a  common  kind  of  plants.  Nietzsche  calls 
them  '  the  much-too-many.'  But  Nietzsche  does  not  know 
quite  so  much  as  the  Energy  that  wills  them  to  manifest. 
It  is  dreadful,  it  is  pitiful.  It  would  seem,  if  God  so 
loved  the  world — that  He  could  not  endure  such  pity  as 
would  be  His  at  the  sight  of  this  suffering  and  deg 
radation.  .  .  .  But  you  have  no  right  to  despise  them — 
you,  of  all  women.  You're  blooming  up,  up,  up, — 
farther  and  farther  out  of  the  common — your  blooming 
has  been  for  years  because  you  have  kindled  your  mind. 
You  must  bloom  for  years  still — that's  the  only  meaning 
of  your  strength — because  you  will  kindle  your  soul.  .  .  . 
A  woman  with  power  like  yours — has  no  right  but  to 
love  the  weak.  Think  what  strength  you  have!  There 
have  been  moments  in  the  last  half-hour  that  you  have 
roused  me  to  such  a  pitch  of  thinking — that  I  have  felt 
weak  and  ineffectual  beside  you.  You  made  me  think 
sometimes  of  a  great  submarine — I  don't  know  just  why 
— flashing  in  the  depths." 

"  I  don't  think  you  see  me  right,"  Selma  Cross 
said  wearily.  "  Many  times  I  have  been  lost  in  the 
dark.  I  have  been  wicked — hated  the  forces  that  made 
me.  I  have  so  much  in  me  of  the  peasant — that  I 
abhor.  There  have  been  times  when  I  would  have 
been  a  prostitute  for  a  clean  house  and  decent  clothes 
to  cover  me,  but  men  did  not  look  at  The  Thing — 
only  the  old  man,  and  one  other !  "  Her  eyes  bright 
ened,  either  at  the  memory  or  at  the  thought  that  she 
was  free  from  the  former.  ..."  Don't  wince  and  I'll 
tell  you  about  that  angel.  You  will  be  wiser.  I  don't 
want  you  for  my  friend,  if  I  must  keep  something  back. 
It  was  over  three  years  ago,  during  my  first  real  success. 


78  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

I  was  rather  startling  as  Sarah  Blixton  in  Heber's  Caller 
Herrin.  It  was  in  that  that  I  learned  repression.  That 
was  my  struggle — to  repress.  .  .  .  Old  man  Villiers  saw 
me,  and  was  wise  enough  to  see  my  future.  '  Here's  a 
girl,'  I  can  imagine  him  saying,  '  who  is  ugly  enough  to 
be  square  to  one  man,  and  she  's  a  comer  in  spite  of  her 
face.'  He  showed  where  his  check-book  could  be  of 
unspeakable  service.  It  was  all  very  clear  to  me.  I  felt 
I  had  struggled  enough,  and  went  with  him.  .  .  .  Villiers 
is  that  kind  of  New  Yorker  who  feels  that  he  has  nothing 
left  to  live  for,  when  he  ceases  to  desire  women.  In 
his  vanity — they  are  always  vain — he  wanted  to  be  seen 
with  a  woman  mentioned  on  Broadway.  It  was  his  idea 
of  being  looked  up  to — and  of  making  other  men  en 
vious.  You  know  his  sort  have  no  interest — save  where 
they  can  ruin. 

"  Then  for  two  winter  months,  Villiers  and  I  had  a 
falling  out.  He  went  South,  and  I  remained  here  to  work. 
During  this  time  I  had  my  first  real  brush  with  love — a 
young  Westerner.  It  was  terrific.  He  was  a  brilliant, 
but  turned  out  a  rotten  cad.  I  couldn't  stand  that  in  a 
young  man.  .  .  .  You  can  pity  an  old  man,  much  the 
worse  for  living,  when  he  is  brazenly  a  cad — doesn't 
know  anything  else.  .  .  .  When  Villiers  came  back  from 
the  South  I  was  bought  again.  I  put  it  all  nakedly, 
Paula,  but  I  was  older  than  you  are  now,  when  that 
sort  of  thing  began  with  me.  Remember  that!  Still, 
I  mustn't  take  too  much  credit,  because  I  didn't  attract 
men.  ...  If  you  don't  abhor  me  now,  you  never  will, 
little  neighbor,  because  you  have  the  worst.  .  .  .  Some 
time  I'll  tell  you  a  real  little  love  story — oh,  I'm  praying 
it's  real !  He's  a  hunch-back,  Paula, — the  author  of  The 


An  Actress's  Heart  79 

Thing,  .  .  .  Nobody  could  possibly  want  a  hunch-back 
but  me — yet  I'm  not  good  enough.  He's  so  noble  and 
so  fine!  .  .  .  The  past  is  so  full  of  abominations,  and 
I'm  not  a  liar.  ...  I  don't  think  he'd  want  me — though 
I  could  be  his  nurse.  I  could  carry  him!  .  .  .  Then 
there  is  a  long-ago  promise.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  know  I'm  not 
fit  for  that  kind  of  happiness !  .  .  .  " 

There  was  an  inspiration  in  the  last.  It  was  strong 
enough  to  subvert  Paula's  mind  from  the  road  of 
dreary  degradation  over  which  she  had  been  led.  From 
rousing  heights  of  admiration  to  black  pits  of  shame, 
she  had  fallen,  but  here  again  was  a  tonic  breath  from 
clean  altitudes.  The  picture  in  her  mind  of  this  great 
glowing  creature  tenderly  mothering  the  poor  crippled 
genius  of  The  Thing — was  a  thrilling  conception. 

"  There  is  nothing  which  cannot  be  forgiven — save 
soul-death !  "  Paula  said  ardently.  "  What  you  have 
told  me  is  very  hard  to  adjust,  but  I  hope  for  your 
new  love.  Oh,  I  am  glad,  Selma,  that  the  other  is  all 
behind!  I  don't  know  much  of  such  things,  but  it 
has  come  to  me  that  it  is  easier  for  a  man  to  separate 
himself  from  past  degradations  and  be  clean — than  a 
woman.  This  is  because  a  man  gives — but  the  woman 
receives  her  sin!  That  which  is  given  cannot  continue 
to  defile,  but  woman  is  the  matrix.  .  .  .  Still,  you  do  not 
lie.  Such  things  are  so  dreadful  when  matted  in  lies. 
We  all  carry  burdensome  devils — but  few  uncover  them, 
as  you  have  done  for  me.  There  is  something  noble 
in  looking  back  into  the  past  with  a  shudder,  saying, 
— '  I  was  sick  and  full  of  disease  in  those  days/  but 
when  one  hugs  the  corrosion,  painting  it  white  all  over 
— there  is  an  inner  devouring  that  is  never  appeased.  .  .  . 


80  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

All  our  sisters  are  in  trouble.  I  think  we  live  in  a  world 
of  suffering  sororities.  You  are  big  and  powerful. 
Your  greater  life  is  to  come.  ...  I  am  glad  for  what 
you  have  put  behind.  You  will  progress  farther  and 
farther  from  it.  I  am  glad  you  are  back  across  the 
hall— alone!" 

For  many  moments  after  Selma  Cross  had  gone, 
Paula  sat  thinking  under  the  lamp.  At  last  she  drew 
the  sheets  of  the  letter  to  Charter  frcm  the  desk-drawer, 
and  read  them  over.  The  same  rapt  smile  came  to  her 
lips,  as  when  she  was  writing.  It  was  a  letter  to  her 
Ideal — the  big  figure  of  cleanness  and  strength,  she 
wanted  this  man  to  be.  Even  a  line  or  two  she  added. 
No  one  ever  knew,  but  Paula.  ...  At  length,  she  began 
tearing  the  sheets.  Finer  and  finer  became  the  squares 
under  her  tense  fingers — a  little  pile  of  confetti  on  the 
desk  at  last — and  brushed  into  a  basket.  .  .  .  Then  she 
wrote  another  letter,  blithe,  brief,  gracious — about  his 
book  and  her  opinion.  It  was  a  letter  such  as  he  would 
expect.  .  .  . 


SIXTH  CHAPTER 

PAULA  IS  CALLED  TO  PARLOR   "F"OF  THE  MAID- 
STONE   WHERE  THE  BEYOND-DEVIL   AWAITS 
WITH    OUTSTRETCHED  ARMS 

PAULA  felt  singularly  blessed  the  next  morning 
wondering  if  ever  there  existed  another  woman  into 
whose  life-channel  poured  such  strange  and  torrential 
tributaries.  The  current  of  her  mind  was  broadening 
and  accelerating.  She  was  being  prepared  for  some  big 
expression,  and  there  is  true  happiness  in  the  thought. 
Reifferscheid,  since  her  pilgrimage  to  Staten  Island, 
had  become  a  fixture  of  delight.  Selma  Cross  had  borne 
her  down  on  mighty  pinions  to  the  lower  revelations  of 
the  City,  but  had  winged  her  back  again  on  a  breeze  of 
pure  romance.  Madame  Nestor  had  parted  the  curtains, 
which  shut  from  the  world's  eye,  hell  unqualified,  yet  her 
own  life  was  a  miracle  of  penitence.  Not  the  least  of 
her  inspirations  was  this  mild,  brave  woman  of  the 
solitudes.  Then,  there  was  the  commanding  mystery 
of  Bellingham,  emerging  in  her  mind  now  from  the 
chicaneries  of  the  past  ten  days;  rising,  indeed,  to  his 
own  valuation — that  of  a  New  Voice.  Finally,  above 
and  before  all,  was  the  stirring  figure  of  her  Ideal — 
her  splendid  secret  source  of  optimism — Charter,  less  a 
man  than  a  soul  in  her  new  dreams — a  name  to  which 
she  affixed,  "  The  Man-Who-Must-Be-Somewhere." 

Just  once,  the  thought  came  to  Paula  that  Bellingham 
had  designed  a  meeting  such  as  took  place  in  the  Park 
to  soften  her  aversion  and  clear  from  her  mind  any 
6  81 


82  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

idea  of  his  abnormality.  She  could  not  hold  this  sus 
picion  long.  Attributing  evil  strategies  to  another  was  not 
easy  for  Paula.  The  simpler  way  now  was  to  give  him 
every  benefit,  even  to  regard  the  recent  dreadful  ad 
ventures  with  an  intangible  devil — as  an  outburst  of  her 
neglected  feminine  prerogatives,  coincident  with  the 
stress  of  her  rather  lonely  intellectual  life.  As  for 
Madame  Nestor,  might  she  not  have  reached  a  more 
acute  stage  of  a  similar  derangement?  Paula  was  not 
unacquainted  with  the  great  potentialities  of  fine  physical 
health,  nor  did  she  miss  the  fact  that  Mother  Nature 
seldom  permits  a  woman  of  normal  development  to 
reach  the  fourth  cycle  of  her  years,  without  reckoning 
with  the  ancient  reason  of  her  being. 

She  now  regarded  early  events  connected  with  Bell" 
ingham  as  one  might  look  back  upon  the  beginning  of 
a  run  of  fever.  .  .  .  Could  he  be  one  of  the  New 
Voices  ? 

Paula  loved  to  think  that  Woman  was  to  be  the  chief 
resource  of  the  Lifting  Age.  Everywhere  among  men 
she  saw  the  furious  hunger  for  spiritual  refreshment. 
Words,  which  she  heard  by  mere  chance  from  passers- 
by,  appalled  her.  It  was  so  tragically  clear  to  her  how 
the  life  led  by  city  men  starves  their  better  natures — 
that  there  were  times  when  she  could  hardly  realize 
they  did  not  see  it.  She  wanted  someone  to  make  the 
whole  world  understand — that  just  as  there  are  hidden 
spaces  between  the  atoms  of  steel  which  made  radio 
activity  possible,  so  in  the  human  body  there  is  a  permeat 
ing  space,  in  which  the  soul  of  man  is  built  day  by 
day  from  every  thought  and  act;  and  when  the  worn- 
out  physical  envelope  falls  away — there  it  stands,  a 


The  Beyond-Devil  83 

record  to  endure.  .  .  .  She  wanted  to  believe  that  it  was 
the  office  of  woman  to  help  man  make  this  record 
beautiful.  Just  as  the  old  Anglo-Saxon  for  "  lady " 
means  "  giver  of  bread/'  so  she  loved  to  think  that  the 
spiritual  loaf  was  in  the  keeping  of  woman  also. 

Paula  could  not  meditate  without  ecstasy  upon  the 
thought  that  a  great  spiritual  tide  was  rising,  soon  to 
overflow  every  race  and  nation.  The  lifting  of  man  from 
greedy  senses  to  the  pure  happiness  of  brotherhood,  was 
her  most  intimate  and  lovely  hope.  Back  of  everything, 
this  lived  and  lit  her  mind.  There  were  transcendent 
moments — she  hardly  dared  to  describe  or  interpret 
them — when  cosmic  consciousness  swept  into  her  brain. 
Swift  was  the  visitation,  nor  did  it  leave  any  memor 
able  impression,  but  she  divined  that  such  lofty  moments, 
different  only  in  degree,  were  responsible  for  the  great 
utterances  in  books  that  are  deathless.  The  shield  was 
torn  from  her  soul,  leaving  it  naked  to  every  world- 
anguish.  The  woman,  Paula  Linster,  became  an  ac 
cumulation  of  all  suffering — desert  thirsts,  untold  loves, 
birth  and  death  parturitions,  blind  cruelties  of  battle, 
the  carnal  lust  of  Famine  (that  soft-treading  spectre), 
welted  flesh  under  the  screaming  lash,  moaning  from  the 
World's  Night  everywhere — until  the  impassioned  spirit 
within  rushed  forth  to  the  very  horizon's  rim  to  shelter 
an  agonizing  people  from  an  angry  God.  Such  is  the 
genius  of  race-motherhood — the  ineffable  spirit  of  media 
tion  between  Father  and  child. 

One  must  regard  with  awe  the  reaction  which  fol 
lows  such  an  outpouring.  These  are  the  wilderness- 
wrestlings  of  the  great-souled — the  Gethsemanes.  Out 
of  the  dream,  would  appear  the  actual  spectacle  of  the 


84  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

City — human  beings  preying  one  upon  the  other,  the  wolf 
still  frothing  in  man's  breast — and  then  would  crush 
down  upon  her  with  shattering  pain  the  realization  of 
her  own  hopeless  ineffectually.  To  a  mind  thus  stricken 
and  desolated  often,  premonitions  of  madness  come  at 
last — madness,  the  black  brother  of  genius.  There  is 
safety  alone  in  a  body  strong  and  undefiled  to  receive 
again  the  expanded  spirit.  From  how  many  a  lustrous 
youth — tarrying  too  long  by  the  fetid  margins  of  sense 
— has  the  glory  winged  away,  never  to  return  to  a 
creature  fallen  into  hairy  despoliation. 

Paula  had  returned  from  down-town  about  noon. 
Reifferscheid,  who  had  a  weakness  for  Herman  Mel 
ville,  and  annually  endeavored  to  spur  the  American 
people  into  a  more  adequate  appreciation  of  the  old 
sea-lion,  had  ordered  her  to  rest  her  eyes  for  a  few 
days  in  Moby  Dick.  With  the  fat,  old  fine-print 
novel  under  her  arm,  Paula  let  herself  into  her  own 
apartment  and  instantly  encountered  the  occultist's 
power.  She  sank  to  the  floor  and  covered  her  face 
in  the  pillows  of  the  couch.  In  the  past  twenty-four 
hours  she  had  come  to  believe  that  the  enemy  had  been 
put  away  forever,  yet  here  in  her  own  room  she  was 
stricken,  and  so  swiftly.  .  .  .  Though  she  did  not  realize 
it  at  once,  many  of  the  thoughts  which  gradually  surged 
into  her  mind  were  not  her  own.  She  came  to  see  Bell- 
ingham  as  other  women  saw  him — as  a  great  and  wise 
doctor.  Her  own  conception  battled  against  this,  but 
vainly,  vaguely.  It  was  as  if  he  held  the  balance  of 
power  in  her  consciousness.  Without  attempting  to  link 
them  together,  the  processes  of  her  mind  quickly  will  be 
set  into  words. 


The  Beyond-Devil  85 

Her  first  thought,  before  the  tightening-  of  Belling- 
ham's  control  in  her  brain,  was  to  rush  into  his  pres 
ence  and  fiercely  arraign  him  for  the  treachery  he  had 
committed.  After  blaming  Madame  Nestor  and  de 
forming  her  own  faculties  to  clear  him  from  evil,  the 
deyilishness  of  the  present  visitation  overwhelmed.  And 
how  infinitely  more  black  and  formidable  now  was  his 
magic — after  the  utterances  in  the  Park!  This  was  her 
last  real  stand.  ...  A  cry  of  hopelessness  escaped  her 
lips,  for  the  numbness  was  already  about  her  eyes,  and 
creeping  back  like  a  pestilence  along  the  open  highways 
of  her  mind. 

"  Come  to  me.  The  way  is  open.  I  am  alone. 
I  am  near.  .  .  .  Come  to  me,  Paula  Linster,  of  plentiful 
treasures.  ...  Do  you  not  see  the  open  way — how  near 
I  am?  Oh,  come — now — come  to  me  now!  " 

Again  and  again  the  little  sentences  fell  upon  her 
mind,  until  its  surface  stirred  against  reiteration,  as  one, 
thoroughly  understanding,  resents  repeated  explanations. 
...  It  was  right  now  for  her  to  go.  She  had  been 
rebellious  and  headstrong  to  conjure  such  evils  about 
the  name  of  a  famous  physician.  The  world  called  him 
famous.  Only  she  and  Madame  Nestor  had  stood  apart, 
clutching  fast  to  the;>  ideas  of  his  deviltry.  He  had 
taken  the  trouble  to  call  her  to  him — to  prove  that  he 
was  good.  The  degradatio.,  which  she  had  felt  at  the 
first  moment  of  his  summons — was  all  from  her  own 
perversity.  .  .  .  Clearly  she  saw  the  street  below,  Cathe 
dral  Way;  a  turn  north,  then  across  the  Plaza  to  the 
brown  ornate  entrance  of  The  Maidstone.  .  .  .  There 
was  no  formality  about  the  going.  Her  hat  and 
coat  had  not  been  removed.  .  She  was  in  the 


86  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

hall;  the  elevator  halted  at  her  floor  while  the  man 
pushed  a  letter  and  some  papers  under  the  door  of  the 
Selma  Cross  apartment.  ...  In  the  street,  she  turned 
across  the  Plaza  from  Cathedral  Way  to  The  Maidstone. 
The  real  Paula  Linster  marshalled  a  hundred  terrible 
protests,  but  her  voice  was  muffled,  her  strength  in 
effectual  as  Josephine's  beating  with  white  hands  against 
the  Emperor's  iron  door.  Real  volition  was  locked  in 
the  pitiless  will  of  the  physician,  to  whom  she  hastened 
as  one  hoping  to  be  saved. 

She  inquired  huskily  of  the  man  at  the  hotel-desk. 

"  The  Doctor  is  waiting  on  the  parlor-floor — in  F," 
was  the  answer. 

Paula  stepped  from  the  elevator,  and  was  directed  to 
the  last  door  on  the  left.  .  .  .  The  sense  of  her  need, 
of  her  illness,  hurried  her  forward  through  the  long  hall. 
Sometimes  she  seemed  burdened  with  the  body  of 
a  woman,  very  tired  and  helpless,  but  quite  obedient. 
.  .  .  The  figure  "  F  "  on  a  silver  shield  filled  her  eyes. 
The  door  was  ajar.  Her  entrance  was  not  unlike  that 
of  a  lioness  goaded  with  irons  through  a  barred  passage 
into  an  arena.  She  did  not  open  the  door  wider,  but 
slipped  through  sideways,  gathering  her  dress  closely 
about  her.  .  .  .  Bellingham  was  there.  His  face  was 
white,  rigid  from  long  concentration;  yet  he  smiled  and 
his  arms  were  opened  to  her.  .  .  .  The  point  here  was 
that  he  so  marvelously  understood.  His  attitude  to  her 
seemed  that  of  a  physician  of  the  soul.  She  could  not 
feel  the  fighting  of  the  real  woman.  .  .  .  Dazed  and 
broken  for  the  moment,  she  encountered  the  soothing 
magnetism  of  his  hands. 

"  How  long  I  have  waited !  "  he  quietly  exclaimed. 


The  Beyond-Devil  87 

"  Hours,  and  it  was  bitter  waiting — but  you  are  a  wreath 
for  my  waiting — how  grateful  you  are  to  my  weari 
ness  !  .  .  .  Paula  Linster,  Paula  Linster — what  deserts 
of  burning  sunshine  I  have  crossed  to  find  you — what 
dark  jungles  I  have  searched  for  such  fragrance ! " 

His  arms  were  light  upon  her,  his  voice  low  and 
lulling.  He  dared  not  yet  touch  his  lips  to  her  hair — 
though  they  were  dry  and  twisted  with  his  awful 
thirst.  Craft  and  patience  altogether  feline  was  in  the 
art  with  which  he  wound  and  wove  about  her  mind 
thoughts  of  his  own,  designed  to  ignite  the  spark  of 
responsive  desire.  .  .  .  And  how  softly  he  fanned — (an 
incautious  blast  would  have  left  him  in  darkness  alto 
gether) — until  it  caught.  .  .  .  Well,  indeed,  he  knew  the 
cunning  of  the  yet  unbroken  seals;  and  better  still  did 
he  know  the  outraged  forces  hovering  all  about  her, 
ready  to  defeat  him  for  the  slightest  error — and  leave 
him  to  burn  in  his  own  fires. 

"  This  is  peace,"  he  whispered  with  indescribable 
repression.  "  How  soft  a  resting-place — and  yet  how 
strong!  .  .  .  Out  of  the  past  I  have  come  for  you.  Do 
you  remember  the  rock  in  the  desert  on  which  you  sat 
and  waited  long  ago?  Your  eyes  were  weary  when  I 
came — weary  from  the  blazing  light  of  noon  and  the 
endless  waning  of  that  long  day.  On  a  great  rock  in 
the  desert  you  sat — until  I  came,  until  I  came.  Then  you 
laughed  because  I  shut  the  feverish  sun-glow  from  your 
strained  eyes.  .  .  .  Remember,  I  came  in  the  skin  of 
a  lion  and  shut  the  sunset  from  your  aching  eyes — 
my  shoulders  darkening  the  west — and  we  were  alone 
— and  the  night  came  on.  .  .  ." 

Clearly  was  transferred  to  hers,  the  picture  in  his 


88  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

own  brain.  One  of  the  ancient  and  mystic  films  of 
memory  seemed  brought  after  ages  to  the  light — the 
reddening  sands,  the  city  far  behind,  from  which  she 
had  fled  to  meet  her  hero,  deep  in  the  desert — the  glow 
of  sunset  on  his  shoulders  and  in  his  hair,  tawny  as 
the  lion's  skin  he  wore.  .  .  .  The  heart  quickened  within 
her;  the  savage  ardor  of  that  long-ago  woman  grew 
hot  in  her  breast.  Strong  as  a  lion  he  was,  this  youth 
of  the  Sun,  and  fleet  the  night  fell  to  cover  them.  She 
ate  the  dried  grapes  he  gave  her,  drank  deep  from  his 
skin  of  wine,  and  laughed  with  him  in  the  swift  descend 
ing  night.  .  .  .  She  felt  his  arms  now,  her  face  was 
upraised,  her  eyelids  tensely  shut.  Downward  the  blood 
rushed,  leaving  her  lips  icy  cold.  She  felt  the  muscles 
of  his  arms  in  her  tightening  fingers,  and  her  breast 
rose  against  him.  This  was  no  Twentieth  Century 
magician  who  thralled  her  now,  but  a  glorious  hero  out 
of  the  desert  sunset ; — and  the  woman  within  her  was  as 
one  consuming  with  ecstasy  from  a  lover's  last  visit.  .  .  . 
And  now  Bellingham  changed  the  color  and  surface 
of  his  advances.  It  was  his  thought  to  make  such  a 
marvellous  sally,  that  when  he  retired  and  the  mistress 
once  again  commanded  her  own  citadel,  she  would  per 
ceive  the  field  of  his  activities  strewn,  not  with  corpses, 
but  with  garlands,  and  in  their  fragrance  she  must  yearn 
for  the  giant  to  come  yet  again.  The  thing  he  now 
endeavored  to  do  was  beyond  an  ordinary  human  con 
ception  for  devilishness ;  and  yet,  that  it  was  not  a 
momentary  impulse,  but  a  well  considered  plan,  was 
proven  by  the  trend  of  his  talk  of  the  day  before.  .  .  . 
The  flaw  in  his  structure  was  his  apparent  forgetting 
that  the  woman  in  his  arms  breathing  so  ardently, — 


The  Beyond-Devil  89 

in  her  own  mind  was  clinging  to  a  youth  out  of  the 
sunset — a  youth  in  the  skin  of  a  lion. 

"  Wisdom  has  been  given  to  my  eyes,"  Bellingham 
resumed  with  surpassing  gentleness.  "  For  years  a  con 
ception  of  wonderful  womanhood  has  lived  and  bright 
ened  in  my  mind,  bringing  with  it  a  promise  that  in 
due  time,  such  a  woman  would  be  shown  to  me.  The 
woman,  the  promise  and  the  miracle  of  its  later  meaning, 
I  perceived  at  last  were  not  for  my  happiness,  but  for 
the  world's  awful  need.  You  are  the  fruits  of  my 
wonderful  vision — you — Paula  Linster.  You  are  the 
quest  of  my  long  and  weary  searching !  " 

His  utterance  of  her  name  strangely  disturbed  her 
night-rapture  of  the  desert.  It  was  as  if  she  heard 
afar-off — the  calling  of  her  people. 

"  On  the  night  you  entered  the  Hall,"  he  said,  and 
his  face  bent  closer,  "  I  felt  the  sense  of  victory,  before 
these  physical  eyes  found  you.  My  thoughts  roved  over 
a  world,  brightened  by  a  new  hope,  fairer  for  your 
presence.  And  then,  I  saw  your  fine  white  brow,  the 
ignited  magic  of  your  hair  and  eyes,  your  frail  ex 
quisite  shoulders.  ...  It  seemed  as  though  the  lights 
perished  from  the  place — when  you  left." 

The  word  "  magic "  was  a  sudden  spark  around 
which  the  thoughts  of  the  woman  now  groped.  .  .  . 
She  had  lost  her  desert  lover,  passion  was  drained  from 
her,  and  there  was  a  weight  of  great  trouble  pressing 
down.  ..."  Magic  " — she  struggled  for  its  meaning. 
.  .  .  She  was  sitting  upon  a  rock  again,  but  not  in  the 
desert — rather  in  a  place  of  cooled  sunlight,  where  there 
were  turf  roads  and  grand,  old  trees — a  huge  figure  ap 
proaching  with  a  powerful  swinging  stride — yesterday, 


90  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

Bellingham,  the  Park— the  Talk!  .  .  .  Paula  lifted  her 
shoulders,  felt  the  binding  arms  around  them  and  heard 
the  words  uttered  now  in  the  meridian  of  human  passion : 

"  Listen,  Paula  Linster,  you  have  been  chosen  for  the 
most  exalted  task  ever  offered  to  living  woman.  The 
Great  Soul  is  not  yet  in  the  world,  and  He  must  come 
soon!  ...  It  is  you  who  have  inspired  this — you,  of 
trained  will ;  a  mind  of  stirring  evolution,  every  thought 
so  essentially  feminine;  you  of  virgin  body  and  a  soul 
lit  with  stars!  You  are  brave.  The  burden  is  easy 
to  one  of  your  courage,  and  I  should  keep  you  free 
from  the  world — free  from  the  burns  and  the  whips  of 
this  thinking  animal,  the  world.  All  that  I  have  won 
from  the  world,  her  mysteries,  her  enchantments,  I  shall 
give  you,  all  that  is  big  and  brave  and  wise  in  song 
and  philosophy  and  nature,  I  shall  bring  to  your  feet, 
as  a  hunter  with  trophies  to  his  beloved — all  that  a 
man,  wise  and  tender,  can  think  and  express  to  quicken 
the  splendor  of  fertility " 

Paula  was  now  fully  conscious — her  self  restored  to 
her.  The  Yesterday  and  the  To-day  rose  before  her 
mind  in  startling  parallel.  Her  primary  dread  was  that 
she  might  lose  control  again  before  Bellingham  was 
put  away.  The  super-devilishness  of  his  plan — hiding  a 
blasphemy  in  the  white  robe  of  a  spiritual  consecration 
— had  changed  him  in  her  sight  to  a  ravening  beast. 
The  thing  which  he  believed  would  cause  her  eagerly 
to  bestow  upon  him  the  riches  of  her  threefold  life  had 
lifted  her  farther  out  of  his  power  that  moment,  than  even 
she  realized.  Bellingham  had  over-reached.  She  was 
rilled  with  inner  nausea.  .  .  .  The  idea  of  escape, 
the  thought  of  crippling  the  magician's  power  over 


The  Beyond-Devil  91 

her  forever — in  the  stress  of  this,  she  grew  cold. 
.  .  .  She  was  nearest  the  door.  It  stood  ajar,  as  when 
she  had  entered. 

"  Meditation — in  the  place  I  have  prepared,"  he  was 
whispering,  "  meditation  and  the  poetic  life,  rarest  of 
fruits,  purest  of  white  garments — cleansed  with  sunlight 
and  starlight,  you  and  I,  Paula  Linster, — the  sources  of 
creation  which  have  been  revealed  to  me — for  you! 
Wonderful  woman — all  the  vitalities  of  heaven  shall  play 
upon  you!  We  shall  bring  .the  new  god  into  the 
world " 

She  pushed  back  from  his  arms  and  faced  him — 
white-lipped  and  loathing. 

"  You  father  a  son  of  mine,"  she  said,  in  the  door 
way.  "  You — are  dead — the  man's  soul  is  dead  within 
you — you  whited  sepulchre !  " 

His  face  altered  like  a  white  wall  which  an  earth 
quake  disorders  at  the  base.  White  rock  turned  to 
blown  paper;  the  man-mask  rubbed  out;  Havoc  feat 
ured  upon  an  erect  thing,  with  arms  pitifully  out 
stretched. 

Paula,  alone  in  the  long  hall,  ran  to  the  marble 
stairs,  hurried  down  and  into  the  street — swiftly  to  her 
house.  There,  every  thread  of  clothing  she  had  worn 
was  gathered  into  a  pile  for  burning.  Then  she  bathed 
and  her  strength  returned. 


SEVENTH  CHAPTER 

PAULA   BEGINS   TO  SEE  MORE  CLEARLY  THROUGH 
MADAME  NESTOR'S  REVELATIONS,  AND  WIT 
NESSES  A  BROADWAY  ACCIDENT 

IN  mid-afternoon  Paula  obeyed  an  impulse  to  call 
upon  Madame  Nestor.  She  wanted  to  talk  with  the 
only  human  being  in  New  York  who  could  quite  under 
stand.  Madame's  room  was  west  of  Eighth  Avenue  in 
Forty-fourth  Street — the  servant's  quarter  in  a  squalid 
suite,  four  flights  up.  The  single  window  opened  upon 
a  dim  shaft,  heavy  with  emanations  from  many  kitchens. 
There  was  not  even  a  closet.  Madame's  moulted 
plumage  was  hung  upon  the  back  of  the  outer  and  only 
door.  Books  were  everywhere,  on  the  floor,  in  boxes, 
on  the  cot. 

"  My  dear  Paula,  you  felt  the  need  of  me  ?  ...  I 
should  have  come  to  you.  This  does  very  well  for 
me,  but  I  dislike  my  poverty  to  be  known,  dear.  It 
is  not  that  I  am  the  least  proud,  but  the  psychic  effects 
of  pity  are  depressing." 

"  Please,  Madame  Nestor,  don't  think  of  me  pitying 
anybody!  I  did  feel  the  need  of  you.  The  day  has 
been  horrible.  But  first,  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  am 
very  sorry  for  what  I  said — when  you  were  in  my  rooms 
the  other  day " 

The  elder  woman  leaned  forward  and  kissed  Paula's 
dress  at  the  shoulder.  There  was  something  sweet  and 
mild  and  devotional  in  the  action,  something  suggestive 
of  a  wise  old  working-bee  pausing  an  instant  to  caress 
its  queen. 

92 


A  Broadway  Accident  93 

"  You  have  been  impelled  to  go  to  him,  Paula  ?  " 

"  Yes.  It  came  over  me  quite  irresistibly.  I  could 
not  have  been  altogether  myself.  ...  I  think  I  shall 
leave  the  city  1 " 

Madame  Nestor  asked  several  questions,  bringing  out 
all  she  cared  to  know  of  Paula's  experience  that  day. 
Her  eyes  became  very  bright  as  she  said: 

"  I  dare  not  advise  you  not  to  go  away.  Still,  don't 
you  see  it — how  wonderful  was  your  victory  to-day  ?  " 

"  I  can't  always  defeat  him !  "  Paula  cried.  "  His 
power  comes  over  me  and  I  move  toward  him — just  as 
reptiles  must  follow  a  blind  impulse  started  from  with 
out.  Each  time  I  follow,  I  must  be  weaker." 

"  But,  Paula,  each  time  something  happens  to  re 
store  you  to  yourself,  thwarting  his  purpose,  his  pro 
jections  are  weakened." 

"But  if  I  should  go  far  away?" 

"  He  could  only  put  it  in  your  mind  to  return." 

When  Paula  remembered  the  accidents  which  had  pre 
served  her,  even  when  in  the  same  city  with  the  De 
stroyer,  she  could  not  doubt  the  salvation  in  putting  a  big 
stretch  of  the  planet's  curve  between  her  and  this  dyna 
mo.  .  .  .  Certain  unfinished  thinking  could  only  be 
cleared  through  a  friend  like  Madame  Nestor. 

"  This  physical  consciousness  which  he  has  made  me 
feel  seems  indescribably  more  sinister  in  erect  human 
beings  than  the  mating  instinct  in  animals  and  birds," 
Paula  declared  with  hesitation.  "  Can  it  be  that  women  in 
general  encounter  influences — of  this  kind  ?  " 

"  It  is  man's  fault  that  women  have  broken  all 
seasons,"  the  Madame  said  bitterly.  "  Man  has  kept 
woman  submerged  since  the  beginning  of  time.  Always 


94  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

eager  to  serve;  and  blest — or  cursed — with  the  change 
less  passion  to  be  all  to  one  man — her  most  enduring 
hope  to  hold  the  exclusive  love  of  one  man — woman 
has  adapted  herself  eagerly  to  become  the  monogamic 
answer  to  man's  polygamic  nature.  Bellingham  is  but  the 
embodiment  of  a  desire  which  exists  in  greater  or  less 
degree  in  every  man.  This  desire  of  man  has  disordered 
women.  We  have  lost  the  true  meaning  of  ourselves 
— I  mean,  as  a  race  of  women — and  have  become  merely 
physical  mates." 

"  I  can  hardly  believe  it — that  even  women  of  the 
streets  should  ever  be  degraded  by  such  a  horrible 
force,"  Paula  said  desperately.  "  And  the  sweet  calm 
faces  of  some  of  the  women  we  know " 

"  Behind  the  mask  of  innocence,  often,  is  a  woman's 
terrible  secret,  Paula.  For  most  women  obey.  Even 
the  growth  of  the  maid  is  ruthlessly  forced  by  hot 
breaths  of  passion,  until  motherhood — so  often  a  do 
mestic  tragedy — leaves  the  imprint  of  shame  in  her  arms. 
The  man  of  unlit  soul  has  made  this  low  play  of  pas 
sion  his  art.  Woman  as  a  race  has  fallen,  because  it 
is  her  way  to  please  and  obey.  Man  has  taught  us  to 
believe  that  when  he  comes  to  our  arms,  we  are  at  our 
highest.  .  .  .  And,  listen,  Paula,  certain  men  of  to-day, 
a  step  higher  in  evolution,  blame  woman  because  she  has 
not  suddenly  unlearned  her  training  of  the  ages — les 
sons  man  has  graven  in  the  very  bed-rock  of  her  nature. 
In  the  novelty  of  their  new-found  austerity,  they  exclaim : 
'  Avoid  woman.  She  is  passion  rhythmic.  It  is  she 
who  draws  us  down  from  our  lofty  regions  of  en 
deavor.'  " 

Terrific    energy   of   rebellion    stirred    Paula's    mind. 


A  Broadway  Accident  95 

"  But  the  promise  is  that  woman's  time  shall  come ! " 
she  exclaimed.  "  The  Child,  Jesus,  said  to  his  Mother, 
'  Thy  time  is  not  yet  come,'  but  it  is  promised  that  the 
heel  of  woman  shall  crush  the  head  of  the  Serpent. 
We  have  always  borne  the  sin,  the  agony,  the  degrada 
tion,  but  our  time  must  be  close  at  hand!  I  think  this 
is  the  age — and  this  the  country — of  the  Rising 
Woman !  " 

Madame  Nestor  arose  from  the  cot  and  stood  be 
fore  Paula,  her  eyes  shining  with  emotion. 

"  Bless  you,  my  beloved  girl,  my  whole  heart  leaps 
to  sanction  that!  I  have  symbolized  the  whole  struggle 
of  our  race  in  your  personal  struggle — don't  you  see 
this,  Paula?  .  .  .  Bellingham  is  the  concentrate  of  de- 
vourers — and  you  the  evolved  woman  who  overcomes 
him !  My  hope  for  the  race  lies  in  you,  and  your  victory 
to-day  has  filled  my  cup  with  happiness !  .  .  .  You  say 
you  do  not  dare  to  pray.  I  tell  you,  child, — the  God  of 
women  gave  you  strength  to-day.  He  is  close  to  harken 
unto  your  need — for  you  are  among  the  first  of  the 
elect  to  bring  in  the  glory  of  the  new  day!  .  .  .  The 
animal  in  man  has  depleted  the  splendid  energies  of 
the  Spirit.  Passions  of  the  kind  you  defeated  to-day 
are  overpowering  women  everywhere  at  this  hour — 
lesser  passions  of  lesser  Bellinghams.  Man's  course  to 
God  has  been  a  crawl  through  millenniums,  instead  of  a 
flight  through  decades,  because  woman  has  bowed — 
obeyed.  God  is  patient,  but  woman  is  aroused !  .  .  . 
Above  the  din  of  wars,  the  world  has  heard  the  wailing 
of  the  women ;  out  of  the  ghostly  silence  of  famine  and 
from  beneath  the  debris  of  fallen  empires — always  the 
world  has  heard  her  cry  for  pity — her  cry  for  pity  now 


96  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

become  a  Voice  of  Power!  All  her  tortured  centuries 
have  been  for  this — and  the  signs  are  upon  us !  Woman's 
demand  for  knowledge,  her  clamor  for  suffrage,  her 
protest  against  eternally  paying  for  man's  lust  with  un 
blessed  babes — all  these  are  signs!  But  you,  Paula 
Linster, — and  what  I  know  of  this  day — is  the  most 
thrilling  sign  of  all  to  me!  .  .  .  Ah,  woman  is  evolving; 
she  is  aroused!  How  shall  she  repay  man  for  brutaliz 
ing  her  so  long  ?  " 

"  By  bringing  him  back  to  God !  "  Paula  answered. 

They  wept  together  and  whispered,  while  the  night 
fell  about  and  covered  the  squalid  room. 

It  was  one  of  her  emancipated  nights.  Paula's 
spirit  poured  out  over  the  city,  for  her  mind  was  lit 
with  thoughts  of  the  ultimate  redemption  of  her  race. 
Bellingham  could  not  have  found  her  in  his  world  that 
hour.  .  .  .  Emerging  from  Broadway  to  Forty-fourth 
Street,  at  eight  in  the  evening,  she  passed  under  the 
hot  brilliance  of  a  famous  hotel-entrance.  As  it  never 
would  have  occurred  to  her  to  do  in  a  less  exalted 
moment,  Paula  glanced  at  a  little  knot  of  men  standing 
under  the  lights.  The  eyes  of  one  were  roving  like 
an  unclean  hand  over  her  figure.  Suddenly  encounter 
ing  her  look,  a  bold,  eager,  challenge  stretched  itself 
upon  his  face.  In  the  momentary  panic,  her  glance 
darted  to  the  others  instinctively  for  protection — and 
found  three  smiling  corpses.  .  .  .  Here  were  little  Belling- 
hams;  here,  the  sexual  drunkenness  which  has  made 
Man's  course  "  a*  crawl  through  millenniums  "  to  God, 
instead  of  a  flight  through  decades.  What  a  pitiless 
revelation !  .  .  ..  She  clung  to  her  big  Ideal  in  the  West. 


A  Broadway  Accident  97 

It  came  to  her  for  a  second  like  a  last  and  single  hope — 
that  Charter  was  not  like  that.  ..."  God  is  patient  and 
woman  is  aroused ! "  she  whispered. 

And  farther  up,  a  little  way  into  Forty-seventh, 
Paula  found  a  Salvation  Army  circle  under  the  torch. 
A  man  with  a  pallid,  shrunken  face  turned  imploring 
eyes  from  one  to  another  of  the  company,  exclaiming: 
"  I  tell  you,  man's  first  work  here  below  is  to  save 
his  soul!  I  pray  you — men  and  women,  here  to-night 
— to  save  your  souls !  " 

Paula  tossed  her  purse  upon  the  big  drum,  as  she 
passed  swiftly.  Luckily  there  was  carefare  in  her  glove, 
for  she  had  not  thought  of  that.  Never  before  had  she 
felt  in  such  fullness  her  relation  to  the  race.  .  .  . 

A  hansom-cab  veered  about  the  edge  of  the  Salva 
tion  circle,  swift  enough  to  attract  her  eye.  The  horse 
had  started  before  the  driver  was  in  the  seat.  The  lat 
ter  was  fat  and  apoplectic.  It  was  all  he  could  do  to 
regain  his  place,  so  that  the  reins  still  dangled.  The 
possibility  of  a  cab-horse  becoming  excited  held  only 
humor  for  the  crowd,  which  parted  to  let  the  vehicle 
by.  The  horse,  feeling  his  head,  started  to  run  just 
as  the  driver  seized  one  of  the  lines  and  jerked  his 
beast  into  the  curb.  There  was  an  inhuman  scream. 
A  strange,  boneless  effigy  of  a  man  with  twisted,  waving 
arms — went  down  before  the  plunging  horse,  so  sud 
denly  swerved.  ...  A  hush  seemed  to  have  fallen  upon 
the  noisy  Broadway  corner.  Paula  was  not  blind  in 
the  brief  interval  which  followed,  but  the  world  seemed 
gray  and  still,  like  a  spectral  dawn,  or  the  unearthly 
setting  of  a  dream. 
7 


98  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

"  The  shaft  bored  into  him,  and  the  horse  struck 
him  after  he  fell,"  a  voice  explained. 

They  lifted  him.  There  was  particular  dreadfulness 
in  the  quantity  of  fluid  evenly  sheeted  on  the  pave 
ment  as  from  a  pail  carefully  overturned.  Startling 
effrontery  attached  to  the  thought  of  man's  heaven- 
aspiring  current  swimming  like  this  upon  a  degraded 
city  road.  The  horse,  now  held  by  the  bit,  snorted 
affrightedly  at  the  odor.  They  had  carried  the  un 
fortunate  to  the  sidewalk  under  the  lights  of  a  tobacco- 
shop  window.  The  upper  part  of  his  head  and  face 
was  indefinite  like  a  crushed  tin  of  dark  paint.  But 
mouth  and  nose  and  chin  of  the  upturned  face  left  an 
imperishible  imprint  upon  her  mind.  It  was  Belling- 
ham.  .  .  .  Paula  fled,  her  lips  opening  in  a  sick  fashion. 
It  seemed  hours  before  she  could  reach  the  sanctuary 
of  her  room,  where  she  sobbed  in  the  dark. 


EIGHTH   CHAPTER 

PAULA  MAKES  SEVERAL  DISCOVERIES  IN  THE  CHAR 
TER  HEART-COUNTRY,  AND  IS  DELIGHTED 
BY  HIS  LETTERS  TO  THE  SKYLARK 

THE  morning  paper  stated  that  Dr.  Bellingham 
had  suffered  a  fracture  of  the  skull  and  internal  in 
jury,  but  might  live.  A  note  to  Paula  from  Madame 
Nestor  late  the  next  day  contained  the  following  para 
graph  :  "  I  called  at  the  hospital  to  inquire.  A  doctor 
told  me  that  the  case  is  likely  to  become  a  classic  one. 
Never  in  his  experience,  he  stated,  had  he  witnessed 
a  man  put  up  such  a  fight  for  life.  It  will  be  long, 
however,  before  he  is  abroad  again.  He  must  have 
been  following  you  quite  madly,  because  there  never 
was  a  man  more  careful  in  the  midst  of  city-dangers 
than  Bellingham.  Why,  a  scratched  finger  completely 
upset  him — in  the  earlier  days.  Inscrutable,  but  thrill 
ing — isn't  it,  my  dear  Paula?" 

"  Did  you  follow  Moby  Dick's  whale  tracks  around 
the  wet  wastes  of  the  world  ? "  Reiff erscheid  asked 
several  mornings  later,  as  Paula  entered. 

Her  face  was  flushed.  A  further  letter  from  Quentin 
Charter  had  just  been  tucked  into  her  bag.  "  Yes,  and 
Mr.  Melville  over  trans-continental  digressions,"  she 
answered.  "  He  surely  is  Neptune's  own  confrere." 

"  Did  you  get  the  leviathan  alongside  and  study  the 
bewildering  chaos  of  a  ninety-foot  nervous  system?" 
Reifferscheid  went  on  with  delight. 

99 


100  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

"  Exactly,  and  colored  miles  of  sea-water  with  the 
(emptyings  of  his  vast  heart.  Then,  there  (was  an 
extended  process  of  fatty  degeneration,  which  I  be 
lieve  they  called — blubber-boiling." 

They  laughed  together  over  the  old  whale-epic. 

"  They  remember  Melville  up  in  Boston  and  Nan- 
tucket,"  he  added,  "  but  he's  about  as  much  alive  as 
a  honey-bee's  pulse  elsewhere.  The  trouble  is,  you  can't 
rectify  this  outrage  by  law.  It  isn't  uxoricide  or  sheep- 
stealing — not  to  know  Melville — but  it's  the  deadly  sin 
of  ingratitude.  This  is  a  raw  age,  we  adorn — not  to 
rock  in  the  boat  of  that  man's  soul.  Why,  he's  worthy 
to  stand  with  the  angels  on  the  point  of  the  present." 

The  big  editor  always  warmed  her  when  he  enthused. 
Here,  in  the  midst  of  holiday  books  pouring  in  by 
scores,  he  had  time  to  make  a  big  personal  and  public 
protest  against  a  fifty-year-old  novel  being  forgotten. 

"  But  isn't  Melville  acknowledged  to  be  the  head 
waters  of  inspiration  for  all  later  sea-books  ? "  Paula 
asked. 

"  Yes,  to  the  men  who  do  them,  he's  the  big  laughing 
figure  behind  their  work,  but  the  public  doesn't  seem 
to  know.  .  .  .  Of  course,  Herman  has  faults — 'Japan 
currents  of  faults — but  they  only  warm  him  to  a  white 
man's  heart.  Do  you  know,  I  like  to  think  of  him  in 
a  wide,  windy  room,  tearing  off  his  story  long-hand, 
upon  yard  square  sheets,  grinning  like  an  ogre  at  the 
soul-play,  the  pages  of  copy  settling  ankle-deep  upon 
the  floor.  There's  no  taint  of  over-breeding  in  the  un 
born  thing,  no  curse  of  compression,  no  aping  Addison 
— nothing  but  Melville,  just  blown  in  with  the  gale, 
reeking  with  a  big  story  which  must  be  shed,  before 


The  Skylark  Letters  101 

he  blows  out  again,  with  straining  cordage  booming  in 
his  ears.  He  harnesses  Art.  He  man-handles  Power, 
makes  it  grovel  and  play  circus.  '  Here  it  is,'  he  seems 
to  say  at  the  end.  '  Take  it  or  leave  it.  I'm  rotting 
here  ashore.' " 

"  You  ought  to  dictate  reviews  like  that,  Mr.  Reif- 
ferscheid,"  Paula  could  not  help  saying,  though  she 
knew  he  would  be  disconcerted. 

He  colored,  turned  back  to  his  work,  directing  her 
to  take  her  choice  from  the  shelf  of  fresh  books.  .  .  . 
On  the  car  going  back,  Paula  opened  Charter's  letter. 
Her  fingers  trembled,  because  she  had  been  in  a  happy 
and  daring  mood  five  or  six  days  before  when  she 
wrote  the  letter  to  which  this  was  the  reply. 

.  .  .  Do  you  know,  I  really  like  to  write  to  you?  I  feel  un 
trammelled — turned  loose  in  the  meadows.  It  seems  when  I  start 
an  idea — that  you've  grasped  it,  as  soon  as  it  is  clear  to  me.  Piled 
sentences  after  that  are  unnecessary.  It's  a  real  joy  to  write 
this  way,  as  spirits  commune.  It  wouldn't  do  at  all  for  the 
blessed  multitude.  You  have  to  be  a  mineral  and  a  vegetable 
and  an  animal,  all  in  a  paragraph,  to  get  the  whole  market.  But 
how  generous  the  dear  old  multitude  is — (if  the  writer  has  suf 
fered  enough) — with  its  bed  and  board  and  lamplight  .  .  . 

I  have  been  scored  and  salted  so  many  times  that  I  heal 
like  an  earth-worm.  Tell  me,  can  scar-tissue  ever  be  so  fine? 
Fineness — that's  the  one  excellent  feature  of  being  human! 
Tnere's  no  other  reason  for  being — no  other  meaning  or  reason 
for  atomic  affinity  or  star-hung  space.  True,  the  great  Conceiver 
of  Refining  Thought  seems  pleased  to  take  all  eternity  to  play 
in.  ... 

You've  made  me  think  of  you  out  of  all  proportion.  I 
don't  want  to  help  it.  I'm  very  glad  we  hailed  each  other  across 
the  distance.  There's  something  so  entirely  blithe  and  wise  and 
finished  about  the  personality  I've  builded  from  three  little  letters 
and  a  critique — that  I  refresh  myself  very  frequently  from  them. 
...  I  think  we  must  be  old  playmates.  Perhaps  we  plotted 


102  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

ghost-stories  and  pegged  oranges  at  each  other  in  Atlantean 
orchards  millenniums  ago.  I  begin  to  feel  as  if  I  deserve  to  have 
my  playmate  back.  .  .  .  Then,  again,  it  is  as  though  these 
little  letters  brought  to  my  garret  window  the  Skylark  I  have 
heard  far  and  faintly  so  long  in  the  higher  moments  of  dream. 
Just  a  note  here  and  there  used  to  come  to  me  from  far-shining 
archipelagoes  of  cloud-land.  I  listen  now  and  clearly  understand 
what  you  have  sung  so  long  in  the  Heights.  .  .  .  You  are 
winged — that's  the  word!  Wing  often  to  my  window — won't 
you?  Life  is  peppering  me  with  good  things  this  year.  I  could 
not  be  more  grateful. 

Letters  like  these  made  Paula  think  of  that  memor 
able  first  afternoon  with  Grimm;  and  like  it,  too,  the 
joy  was  so  intense  as  to  hold  the  suggestion  that  there 
must  be  something  evil  in  it  all.  She  laughed  at  this. 
What  law,  human  or  divine,  was  disordered  by  two 
human  grown-ups  with  clean  minds  communing  to 
gether  intimately  in  letters?  Quentin  Charter  might 
have  been  less  imperious,  or  less  precipitous,  in  writing 
such  pleasing  matters  about  herself,  but  had  he  not 
earned  the  boon  of  saying  what  he  felt?  Still,  Paula 
would  not  have  been  so  entirely  feminine,  had  she  not 
repressed  somewhat.  She  even  may  have  known  that 
artful  repression  from  without  is  stimulus  to  any  man. 
Occasionally,  Charter  forgot  his  sense  of  humor,  but 
the  woman  five  years  younger,  never.  The  inevitable 
thought  that  in  the  ordinary  sequence  of  events,  they 
should  meet  face  to  face,  harrowed  somewhat  with 
the  thought  that  she  must  keep  his  ideals  down — or 
both  were  lost.  What  could  a  mind  like  his  not  build 
about  months  of  communion  (eyes  and  ears  strained 
toward  flashing  skies)  with  a  Skylark  ideal?  .  .  .  She 
reminded  Charter  that  skylarks  are  little,  brown,  tame- 
plumaged  creatures  that  only  sing  when  they  soar. 


The  Skylark  Letters  103 

She  could  not  forbear  to  note  that  he  was  a  bit  sky- 
larky,  too,  in  his  letters,  and  observed  that  she  had 
found  it  wise,  mainly  to  keep  one's  wings  tightly  folded 
in  New  York.  She  signed  her  next  letter,  nevertheless, 
with  a  small  pen-picture  of  the  name  he  had  given 
her — full-throated  and  ascending.  Also  she  put  on  her 
house  address.  Some  of  the  paragraphs  from  letters 
which  came  in  the  following  weeks,  she  remembered 
without  referring  to  the  treasured  file: 

.  .  .  Bless  the  wings!  May  they  never  tire  for  long — 
since  I  cannot  be  there  when  they  are  folded.  .  .  .  Often, 
explain  it  if  you  can,  I  think  of  you  as  some  one  I  have  seen 
in  Japan,  especially  in  Tokyo — hurrying  through  the  dusk  in  the 
Minimasakuma-cho,  wandering  through  the  tombs  of  the  Forty- 
seven  Ronins,  or  sipping  tea  in  the  Kameido  among  the  wistaria 
blooms.  Some  time — who  knows  ?  I  have  made  quite  a  delight 
ful  romance  about  it.  ...  Who  is  so  wise  as  positively  to 
say,  that  we  are  not  marvellously  related  from  the  youth  of  the 
world?  Who  dares  declare  we  have  not  climbed  cliffs  of  Cathay 
to  stare  across  the  sky-blue  water,  nor  whispered  together  in 
orient  casements  under  constellations  that  swing  more  perilously 
near  than  these  ?  .  .  .  We  may  be  a  pair  of  foolish  dreamers, 
but  Asia  must  have  a  cup  of  tea  for  us — Asia,  because  she  is  so 
far  and  so  still.  We  shall  remember  then.  .  .  .. 

And  so  you  live  alone?  How  strange,  I  have  always 
thought  of  you  so?  From  the  number,  I  think  you  must  over 
look  the  Park — don't  you?  ...  It  may  strike  you  humor 
ously,  but  I  feel  like  ordering  you  not  to  take  too  many  meals 
alone.  One  is  apt  to  be  neglectful,  and  women  lose  their  appe 
tites  easier  than  men.  I  used  to  be  graceless  toward  the  gift 
of  health.  Perhaps  I  enjoy  perfectly  prepared  food  altogether  too 
well  for  one  of  inner  aspirations.  The  bit  of  a  soul  in  which  you 
see  such  glorious  possibilities,  packs  rather  an  imperious  animal 
this  trip,  I  fear.  However.,  I  don't  let  the  animal  carry  me — any 
more. 

I  see  a  wonderful  sensitiveness  in  all  that  you  write — that's 
why  I  suggest  especially  that  you  should  never  forget  fine  food 


104  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

and  plentiful  exercise.  Pyschic  activity  in  America  is  attained 
so  often  at  the  price  of  physical  deterioration.  This  is  an  empty 
failure,  uncentering,  deluding.  Remember,  I  say  in  America. 
.  .  .  Pray,  don't  think  I  fail  to  worship  sensitiveness — those 
high,  strange  emotions,  the  sense  of  oneness  with  all  things  that 
live,  the  vergings  of  the  mind  toward  the  intangible,  the  light, 
refreshing  sleep  of  asceticism,  subtle  expandings  of  solitude  and 
the  mystical  launchings, — anything  that  gives  spread  of  wing 
rather  than  amplitude  of  girth — but  I  have  seen  these  very  pur 
suits  carry  one  entirely  out  of  rhythm  with  the  world.  The  mul 
titudes  cannot  follow  us  when  there  are  stars  in  our  eyes — they 
cannot  see. 

A  few  years  ago  I  had  a  strange  period  of  deep-delving  into 
ancient  wisdom.  A  lot  of  big,  simple  treasures  unfolded,  but 
I  discovered  great  dogmas  as  well — the  steel  shirts,  iron  shields, 
mailed  fists  and  other  junk  which  lesser  men  seem  predestined  to 
hammer  about  the  gentle  spirit  of  Truth.  I  vegetarianed,  lived 
inside,  practiced  meditate,  and  became  a  sensitive,  as  it  seems 
now.,  in  rather  a  paltry,  arrogant  sense.  The  point  is  I  lost  the 
little  appeal  I  had  to  people  through  writing.  It  came  to  me  at 
length  with  grim  finality  that  if  a  man  means  to  whip  the  world 
into  line  at  all,  he  must  keep  a  certain  brute  strength.  He  must 
challenge  the  world  at  its  own  games  and  win,  before  he  can 
show  the  world  that  there  are  finer  games  to  play.  You  can't 
stand  above  the  mists  and  call  the  crowd  to  you,  but  many  will 
follow  you  up  through  them.)  ...  I  truly  hope,  if  I  am 
wrong  in  this,  that  you  will  see  it  instantly,  and  not  permit  the 
edge  and  temper  of  your  fineness  to  be  coarsened  through  me. 
You  are  so  animate,  so  delicately  strong,  and  seem  so  spiritually 
unhurt,  that  it  occurs  to  me  now  that  there  may  be  finer  laws 
for  you,  than  are  vouchsafed  to  me.  I  interpreted  my  orders — 
to  win  according  to  certain  unalterable  rules  of  the  world.  Balzac 
did  that.  I  think  some  Skylark  sang  to  him  at  the  last,  when  he 
did  his  Seraphita.  .  .  . 

I  cannot  help  but  tell  you  again  of  my  gratitude.  I  am  no 
impressionable  boy.  I  know  what  the  woman  must  be  who  writes 
to  me.  .  .  .  Isn't  this  an  excellent  world  when  the  finer 
moments  come ;  when  we  can  think  with  gentleness  of  past  fail 
ures  of  the  flesh  and  spirit,  and  with  joy  upon  the  achievements 
of  others ;  when  we  feel  that  we  have  preserved  a  certain  relish 
for  the  rich  of  all  thought,  and  a  pleasure  in  innocence;  when 


The  Skylark  Letters  105 

out  of  our  errors  and  calamities  we  have  won  a  philosophy  which 
makes  serene  our  present  voyaging  and  gives  us  keen  eyes  to  dis 
cern  the  coast-lights  of  the  future?  .  .  .  With  lifted  brow — 
I  harken  for  your  singing. 

Paula  knew  that  Quentin  Charter  was  crying  out 
for  his  mate  of  fire.  She  remembered  that  she  had 
strangely  felt  his  strength  before  there  were  any  letters, 
but  she  could  not  deny  that  it  since  had  become  a 
greater  and  more  intimate  thing — her  tower,  white  and 
heroic,  cutting  clean  through  the  films  of  distance,  and 
suggesting  a  vast,  invisible  city  at  its  base.  That  she 
was  the  bright  answer  in  the  East  for  such  a  tower  was 
incredible.  She  could  send  a  song  over  on  the  wings 
of  the  morning — make  it  shine  like  ivory  into  the  eyes 
of  the  new  day,  but  she  dared  not  think  of  herself  as 
a  corresponding  fixture.  A  man  like  Charter  could 
form  a  higher  woman  out  of  dreams  and  letter-pages 
than  the  world  could  mold  for  him  from  her  finest  clays. 
Always  she  said  this — and  forgot  that  the  man  was  clay. 
A  pair  of  dreamers,  truly,  and  yet  there  was  a  differ 
ence  in  their  ideals.  If  Charter's  vision  of  her  lifted 
higher,  it  was  also  flexible  to  contain  a  human  woman. 
As  for  hers — Paula  had  builded  a  tower.  True,  there 
were  moments  of  flying  fog  in  which  she  did  not  see  it, 
but  clean  winds  quickly  brushed  away  the  obscurations, 
and  not  a  remnant  clung.  When  seen  at  all,  her  tower 
was  pure  white  and  undiminished. 

Of  necessity  there  were  reactions.  His  familiarity 
with  the  petty  intensities  of  the  average  man  often  star 
tled  her.  He  seemed  capable  of  dropping  into  the  par 
lance  of  any  company,  not  as  one  who  had  listened  and 
memorized,  but  as  an  old  familiar  who  had  served  time 


106  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

in  all  societies.  In  the  new  aspect  of  personal  letters, 
his  book  revealed  a  comprehension  of  women — that  dis 
mayed.  Of  course,  his  printed  work  was  filled  with 
such  stuff  as  her  letters  were  made  of,  but  between  a 
book  and  a  letter,  there  is  the  same  difference  of  appeal 
as  the  lines  read  by  an  actor,  however  gifted,  are  cold 
compared  to  a  friend's  voice.  Though  she  wondered  at 
Charter  giving  his  time  to  write  such  letters  to  her, 
this  became  very  clear,  if  his  inclination  were  anything 
like  her  own  to  answer  them.  All  the  thinking  of  her 
days  formed  itself  into  compressed  messages  for  him ; 
and  all  the  best  of  her  sprang  to  her  pen  under  his 
address.  The  effort  then  became  to  repress,  to  keep 
her  pages  within  bounds,  and  the  ultimate  effort  was 
to  wait  several  days  before  writing  again.  His  every 
sentence  suggested  pleasure  in  writing;  and  as  a  mat 
ter  of  fact,  he  repressed  very  little.  .  .  .  Was  it  through 
letters  like  hers  in  his  leisure  months  that  Charter 
amassed  his  tremendous  array  of  poignant  details ;  was 
it  through  such,  that  he  reared  his  imposing  ranges 
of  feminine  understanding?  This  was  a  question  re 
quiring  a  worldlier  woman  than  Paula  long  to  hold  in 
mind.  In  the  man's  writing,  regarded  from  her  critical 
training,  there  was  no  betrayal  of  the  literary  clerk 
dependent  upon  data. 

"  I  am  no  impressionable  boy.  I  know  what  the 
woman  must  be  who  writes  to  me."  There  was  some 
thing  of  seership  in  his  thus  irrevocably  affixing  his  ideal 
to  the  human  woman  who  held  the  pen.  .  .  .  His  photo 
graph  was  frequently  enough  in  the  press — a  big  browed, 
plain-faced  young  man  with  a  jaw  less  aggressive  than 
she  would  have  imagined,  and  a  mouth  rather  finely 


The  Skylark  Letters  107 

arched  for  a  reformer  who  was  to  whip  the  world  into 
line.  And  then  there  was  a  discovery.  In  a  magazine 
dated  a  decade  before,  she  ran  upon  his  picture  among  the 
advertising  pages.  Verses  of  his  were  announced  to 
appear  during  the  year  to  come.  He  could  not  have 
been  over  twenty  for  this  picture,  and  to  her  it  was 
completely  charming — a  boy  out  of  the  past  calling 
blithely;  a  poetic  face,  too,  reminding  her  of  prints 
she  had  seen  of  an  early  drawing  of  Keats 's  head  now 
in  London — eager,  sensitive,  all  untried!  ...  It  was  not 
without  resistance  that  she  acknowledged  herself  closer 
to  the  boy — that  something  of  the  man  was  beyond  her. 
There  was  a  mystery  left  upon  the  face  by  the  interven 
ing  years,  "  while  the  tireless  soul  etched  on/'.  .  .  Should 
she  ever  know?  Or  must  there  always  be  this  dim, 
hurting  thing?  Was  it  all  the  etching  of  the  soul — that 
this  later  print  revealed?  .  .  .  These  were  but  bits  of 
shadow — ungrippable  things  which  made  her  wings  falter 
for  a  moment  and  long  for  something  sure  to  rest  upon, 
but  Reifferscheid's  first  talk  about  Charter,  the  latter's 
book,  and  the  letters — out  of  these  were  reconstructed 
her  tower  of  shining  purity. 

There  were  times  when  Paula's  heart,  gathering  all 
its  tributary  sympathies,  poured  out  to  the  big  figure  in 
the  West  in  a  deep  and  rushing  torrent.  Her  entire 
life  was  illuminated  by  these  moments  of  ardor.  Here 
was  a  giving,  in  which  the  thought  of  actual  possession 
had  little  or  no  part.  Her  finest  elements  were  merged 
into  one-pointed  expression.  It  is  not  strange  that  she 
was  dismayed  by  the  triumphant  force  of  the  woman 
within  her,  nor  that  she  recalled  one  of  the  first  of 
Madame  Nestor's  utterances,  "  Nonsense,  Paula,  the 


108  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

everlasting  feminine  is  alive  in  every  movement  of  you." 
Yet  this  outpouring  was  lofty,  and  noon-sky  clear.  An 
emotion  like  this  meant  brightness  to  every  life  that  con 
tacted  it.  ...  But  ruthlessly  she  covered,  hid  away  even 
from  her  own  thoughts,  illuminations  such  as  these.  Here 
was  a  point  of  tragic  significance.  /Out  of  the  past  has 
come  this  great  fear  to  strong  women — the  fear  to  let 
themselves  love.  This  is  one  of  the  sorriest  evolutions  of 
the  self-protecting  instinct.  So  long  have  women  met 
the  tragic  fact  of  fickleness  and  evasion  in  the  men  of 
their  majestic  concentrations — that  fear  puts  its  weight 
against  the  doors  that  love  would  open  wide.  } 

Almost  unconsciously  the  personal  tension  of  the 
correspondence  increased.  Not  infrequently  after  her 
letters  were  gone,  Paula  became  afraid  that  this  new, 
full-powered  self  of  hers  had  crept  into  her  written 
pages  with  betraying  effulgence,  rising  high  above  the 
light  laughter  of  the  lines.  How  she  cried  out  for 
open  honesty  in  the  world  and  rebelled  against  the  gar 
ments  of  falsity  which  society  insists  must  cover  the 
high  as  well  as  the  low.  Charter  seemed  to  say  what 
was  in  his  heart;  at  least,  he  dared  to  write  as  the 
woman  could  not,  as  she  dared  not  even  to  think,  lest 
he  prove — against  the  exclaiming  negatives  of  her  soul 
— a  literary  craftsman  of  such  furious  zeal  that  he  could 
tear  the  heart  out  of  a  woman  he  had  not  seen,  pin  the 
quivering  thing  under  his  lens,  to  describe,  with  his 
own  responsive  sensations. 

So  the  weeks  were  truly  emotional.  Swiftly,  be 
yond  any  realization  of  her  own,  Paula  Linster  became 
full-length  a  woman.  Reifferscheid  found  it  harder  and 
harder  to  talk  even  bossily  to  her,  but  cleared  his  voice 


The  Skylark  Letters  109 

when  she  entered,  vented  a  few  booky  generalities,  and 
cleared  his  voice  when  she  went  away.  Keen  winter 
fell  upon  his  system  of  emptied  lakes;  gusty  winter 
harped  the  sound  of  a  lonely  ship  in  polar  seas  among 
the  naked  branches  of  the  big  elms  above  his  cottage ; 
indeed,  gray  winter  would  have  roughed  it — in  the  big 
chap's  breast,  had  he  not  buckled  his  heart  against  it. 
.  .  .  For  years,  Tim  Reifferscheid  had  felt  himself  aloof 
from  all  such  sentiment.  Weakening,  he  had  scrutinized 
his  new  assistant  keenly  for  the  frailties  with  which  her 
sex  was  identified  in  his  mind.  In  all  their  talks  together, 
she  had  verified  not  one,  so  that  he  was  forced  to  de 
stroy  the  whole  worthless  edition.  She  was  a  discovery, 
thrillingly  so,  since  he  had  long  believed  such  a  woman 
impossible.  Now  he  felt  crude  beside  her,  remembered 
everything  that  he  had  done  amiss  (volumes  of  material 
supposed  to  be  out  of  print).  Frankly,  he  was  irritated 
with  any  one  in  the  office  who  presumed  to  feel  himself 
an  equal  with  Miss  Linster.  .  .  .  But  all  this  was  Reiffer- 
scheid's,  and  no  other — as  far  from  any  expression  of 
his,  as  thoughtless  kisses  or  thundering  heroics. 


NINTH   CHAPTER 

PAULA  IS  DRAWN  DEEPER  INTO  THE  SELMA  CROSS 
PAST  AND  IS  BRAVELY  WOOED  THROUGH  FUR 
THER  MESSAGES  FROM  THE  WEST 

SELMA  CROSS  frequently  filled  the  little  place  of 
books  across  the  hall  with  her  tremendous  vibrations 
before  the  trial  trip  of  her  new  play  on  the  road.  Paula 
liked  to  have  her  come  in,  delighted  in  the  great  creat 
ure's  rapture  over  the  hunch-back,  Stephen  Cabot, 
author  of  The  Thing.  There  was  an  indescribably 
brighter  luster  in  the  waxing  and  waning  of  romantic 
tides,  than  the  eyes  of  Paula  had  ever  before  dis 
covered,  so  that  the  confidences  of  the  other  were  of 
moment.  Selma  was  terrified  by  some  promise  she 
had  made  years  before  in  Kentucky.  It  was  gradually 
driven  deep  into  the  listener's  understanding  that  no 
matter  how  harsh  and  dreadful  the  intervening  years 
had  been,  here  was  a  woman  to  whom  a  promise  meant 
a  promise.  Paula  was  moved  almost  to  tears  by  the 
other's  description  of  Stephen  Cabot,  and  the  first  time 
she  saw  him. 

"  I  wonder  if  the  long  white  face  wifh  the  pain-lit 
eyes  could  ever  mean  to  any  one  else  what  it  does  to 
me  ?  "  Selma  whispered  raptly  when  they  talked  together 
one  Sunday  night.  "  Why,  to  see  him  sitting  there  be 
fore  me  at  rehearsal — the  finest,  lowest  head  in  all  the 
chairs — steadies,  exalts  me !  I  hold  fast  to  repression. 
...  It  was  Vhruebert  who  brought  me  to  him,  and  the 
first  words  Stephen  said  were :  '  Your  manager  is  a 

110 


The  Actress  Again  111 

wizard,  Miss  Cross,  to  get  you  for  this.  Why,  you  are 
the  woman  I  wrote  about  in  The  Thing!'' 

"  Tell  me  more,"  Paula  had  whispered. 

"  We  met  in  Vhruebert's  office  and  forgot  the  man 
ager  entirely.  I  guess  two  hours  passed,  as  we  talked, 
and  went  over  the  play  together  that  first  time.  Vhrue- 
bert  sent  in  his  office-boy  finally  to  remind  us  that  he 
was  still  in  the  building.  How  we  three  laughed  about 
it!  ...  Then  as  we  started  out  for  luncheon  together, 
Stephen  and  I,  Vhruebert  took  his  place  at  the  door 
before  us,  and  delivered  himself  of  something  like  this: 

"  '  You  two  listen  to  the  father  of  what  you  are  to 
be,'  "  Selma  Cross  went  on,  roughening  her  voice  and 
tightening  her  nasal  passages,  to  imitate  the  old  Hebrew 
star-maker.  "  '  Listen  to  the  soulless  Vhruebert,  who 
brudalizes  the  great  Amerigan  stage.  You  two  are  Art. 
Very  well,  listen  to  Commerce.  It  took  me  twenty- 
five  years  to  learn  that  there  must  be  humor  in  a  blay. 
This  T'ing  would  not  lift  the  lip  of  a  ganary-bird.  It 
took  me  twenty-five  years  to  learn  there  must  be  joy 
at  the  end  of  a  blay — and  wedding-bells.  This  T'ing 
ends  just  about — over  the  hills  to  the  mad-house. 
Twenty-five  years  proved  to  me  what  I  know  the  first 
day — that  women  of  the  stage  must  be  beautiful.  Miss 
Gross  is  not.  I  say  no  more.  Here  I  have  neither 
dramatist  nor  star.  I  could  give  the  blay  by  Gabot  to 
Ellen  Terry — or  to  Miss  Gross,  if  Ibsen  write  it.  As 
it  is,  I  have  no  name.  There  are  five  thousand  people 
in  this  country  writing  blays  with  humor  and  habby 
endings.  There  are  ten  thousand  beautiful  women  ex- 
biring  to  spend  it  on  the  stage.  Yet  you  two  are  the 
chosen  of  Vhruebert.  When  you  look  into  each  other's 


112  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

eye  and  visper  how  von-der-ful  you  are,  with  rising 
inflection ;  and  say,  "  To  hell  with  Commerce  and  the 
Binhead  Bublic ! "  remember  Vhruebert  who  advances 
the  money ! ' ' 

"  And  did  you  remember  Vhruebert  in  that  fairy 
luncheon  together  ?  "  Paula  asked  happily. 

"  No,  I  only  saw  the  long  white  face  of  Stephen 
Cabot.  I  wanted  to  take  him  in  my  arms  and  make  him 
whole !  " 

For  ten  weeks  Bellingham  lay  in  one  of  the  New 
York  hospitals.  "  A  woman  attends  him,"  Madame 
Nestor  informed.  "  She  is  young  and  has  been  very 
beautiful.  How  well  do  I  know  her  look  of  impotence 
and  apathy — that  look  of  unresisting  obedience."  To 
Paula,  the  magician  seemed  back  among  the  dead  ages, 
although  Madame  Nestor  did  not  regard  the  pres 
ent  lull  without  foreboding.  Paula  could  not  feel 
that  her  real  self  had  been  defiled.  The  dreadful  visita 
tions  were  all  but  erased,  as  pass  the  spectres  of  delirium. 
What  was  more  real,  and  rocked  the  centres  of  her 
being,  was  the  conception  of  this  outcast's  battle  for 
life.  She  could  not  forget  that  it  was  in  pursuing  her, 
that  he  had  been  injured.  Facing  not  only  death,  but 
extinction,  this  idolater  of  life  had,  as  one  physician 
expressed  it,  held  together  his  shattered  vitality  by  sheer 
force  of  will,  until  healing  set  in.  The  only  thought  com 
parable  in  terror  to  such  a  conflict,  had  to  do  with  the 
solitudes  and  abject  frigidity  of  inter-stellar  spaces. 

The  Skylark  Letters,  as  she  came  to  call  them,  were 
after  all,  the  eminent  feature  of  the  fall  and  winter 
weeks.  There  was  a  startling  paragraph  in  one  of 
the  December  series :  "  I  think  it  is  fitting  for  you  to 


The  Actress  Again  113 

know  (though,  believe  me,  I  needed  no  word  regarding 
you  from  without),  that  I  am  not  entirely  in  the  dark 
as  to  how  you  have  impressed  another.  I  know  nothing 
of  the  color  of  your  hair  or  eyes,  nothing  of  your  size 
or  appearance, — only  just  how  you  impressed  another. 
This  information,  it  is  needless  to  say,  was  unsolicited." 
.  .  .  Just  that,  and  no  further  reference.  It  was  as 
though  he  had  felt  it  a  duty  to  incorporate  those  lines. 
Portions  of  some  of  the  later  letters  follow : 

Did  you  know,  that  without  the  upward  spread  of  wings — 
there  can  be  no  song  from  the  Skylark?  This,  for  me,  has  a 
fragrant  and  delicate  significance.  It  is  true  that  the  poor  little 
caged-birds  sing,  but  how  sorry  they  are,  since  they  have  to 
flutter  their  wings  to  give  forth  sound,  and  cling  with  their  claws 
to  the  bars  to  hold  themselves  down!  ...  I  think  you  must 
have  been  a  little  wing-weary  when  you  wrote  your  last  letter  to 
me.  Perhaps  the  dusk  was  crowding  into  the  Heights.  No 
one  knows  as  I  do  how  the  Skylark  has  sung  and  sung!  .  .  . 
You  did  not  say  it,  but  I  think  you  wanted  the  earth-sweet 
meadows.  It  came  to  me  like  needed  rain — straight  to  the 
heart  of  mine  that  little  plaint  in  the  song.  It  made  me  feel 
how  useless  is  the  strength  of  my  arms.  .  .  .  You  see,  I 
manage  pretty  well  to  keep  you  up  There.  I  must.  And  because 
you  are  so  wonderful,  I  can.  .  .  .  An  enthralling  temperament 
rises  to  me  from  your  letters.  I  love  to  let  it  flood  through  my 
brain.  .  .  . 

I  do  not  feel  at  all  sure  that  you  know  me  truly.  What  a 
man's  soul  appears  to  be,  through  the  intimations  of  his  higher 
moments,  is  not  the  man  altogether  that  humans  must  reckon 
with.  Nor  must  they  reckon  with  the  trampling  violences  of  one's 
past.  I  truly  believe  in  the  soul.  I  believe  it  is  an  essence  funda 
mentally  fine ;  that  great  mothers  brood  it  beautifully  into  their 
babes ;  that  it  is  nourished  by  the  good  a  man  does  and  thinks. 
I  believe  in  the  ultimate  victory  of  the  soul,  against  the  tough, 
twisted  fibres  of  flesh  which  rise  to  demand  a  thousand  sensa 
tions.  I  would  have  you  think  of  me  as  one  lifting;  happy  in 
discoveries,  the  crown  of  which  you  are ;  conscious  of  an  inte 
grating  spirit ;  that  sometimes  in  my  silences  I  answer  your 


114  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

song  as  one  glorified.  But  then,  I  remember  that  you  must  not 
judge  me  by  the  brightest  of  my  work.  Such  are  the  trained, 
tense  bursts  of  speed — the  swift  expiration  of  the  best.  I  think 
a  man  is  about  half  as  good  as  his  best  work  and  half  as  bad 
as  his  most  lamentable  leisure.  Midway  between  his  emotions 
and  exaltations — is  indicated  his  valuation.  .  .  .  All  men 
clinging  to  the  sweep  of  the  upward  cycle,  must  know  the  evil 
multitude  at  some  time.  Perhaps  few  men  have  met  and  dis 
carded  so  many  personal  devils  as  I,  in  a  single  life.  But  I  say 
to  you  as  I  write  to-night,  those  devils  cast  out  seem  far  back 
among  cannibal  centuries.  I  worship  the  fine,  the  pure, — thoughts 
and  deeds  which  are  expanded  and  warmed  by  the  soul's  breath. 
And  you  are  the  anchorage  of  this  sweeter  spirit  which  is  upon 
me.  Now,  out  of  the  logic  which  life  burns  into  the  brain,  comes 
this  thought:  (I  set  it  down  only  to  fortify  the  citadel  of  truth 
in  which  our  momentous  relation  alone  can  prosper.)  Are  there 
fangs  and  hackles  and  claws  which  I  have  not  yet  uncovered? 
Am  I  given  the  present  serenity  as  a  resting-time  before  meeting 
a  more  subtle  and  formidable  enemy?  Has  my  vitality  miracu 
lously  been  preserved  for  some  final  battle  with  a  champion  of 
champions  of  the  flesh  ?  Is  it  because  the  sting  is  gone  from  my 
scar-tissues  that  I  feel  so  strong  and  so  white  to-night  ?  I  cannot 
think  this,  because  I  have  heard — because  I  still  hear — my  Skylark 
sing. 

The  personal  element  of  the  foregoing  and  the  hint 
of  years  of  "  wrath  and  wanderings,"  which  she  saw 
in  his  second  photograph,  correlated  themselves  in 
Paula's  mind.  They  frightened  her  cruelly,  but  did  not 
put  Charter  farther  away.  Remembering  the  effect  of 
the  passion  which  Bellingham  had  projected  into  her 
own  brain,  helped  her  vaguely  to  understand  Charter's 
earlier  years.  His  splendid  emancipation  from  past  evils 
lifted  her  soul.  And  when  he  asked,  if  his  present 
serenity  might  not  be  a  preparation  for  a  mightier  strug 
gle,  the  serious  reflection  came — might  she  not  ask  the 
same  question  of  herself?  The  old  Flesh-Mother  does 
not  permit  one  to  rest  when  one  is  full  of  strength.  .  .  . 


The  Actress  Again  115 

Paula  perceived  that  Quentin  Charter  was  bravely  trying 
to  get  to  some  sort  of  rational  adjustment  her  ideal  of 
him  and  the  blooded  reality — and  to  preserve  her  from 
all  hurt.  Doubts  could  not  exist  in  a  mind  besieged 
by  such  letters.  .  .  .  One  of  her  communications  must 
have  reflected  something  of  her  terror  at  the  vague  forms 
of  his  past,  which  he  partially  unveiled,  for  in  answer 
he  wrote: 

Do  not  worry  again  about  the  Big  Back  Time.  Perhaps  I 
was  over  assertive  about  the  shadowed  years.  The  main  thing  is 
that  this  is  the  wonderful  present — and  you,  my  white  ally  of 
nobler  power  and  purpose.  A  gale  of  good  things  will  come  to 
us — hopes,  communions  and  inspirations.  We  shall  know  each 
other — grow  so  fine  together — that  Mother  Earth  at  last  will 
lose  her  down-pull  upon  us — as  upon  perfumes  and  sunbeams. 
You  have  come  with  mystical  brightening.  You  are  the  New  Era. 
There  is  healing  in  Gethsemanes.,  since  you  have  swept  with  grace 
and  imperiousness  into  possession  of  the  Charter  heart-country  so 
long  undiscovered.  The  big  area  is  lit,  redeemed  from  chaos. 
It  is  thrilling — since  you  are  there.  Never  must  you  wing  away. 
.  .  .  .  Sometime  you  shall  know  with  what  strength  and  truth 
and  tenderness  I  regard  you.  The  spirit  of  spring  is  in  my  veins. 
It  would  turn  to  summer  if  we  were  together,  but  there  could  be 
no  reacting  winter  because  you  have  evolved  a  mind  and  a  soul. 
.  .  .  Body  and  mind  and  soul  all  evenly  ignited — what  a  concep 
tion  of  woman! 

Paula  begged  him  not  to  try  to  fit  such  an  ideal 
of  the  finished  feminine  to  a  little  brown  tame-plumaged 
skylark.  Since  they  might  some  time  meet,  she  wrote, 
it  was  nothing  less  than  unfair  for  his  mind,  trained 
to  visualize  its  images  so  clearly,  to  turn  its  full  energies 
upon  an  ideal,  and  expect  a  human  stranger — a  hap 
pening — in  the  workaday  physical  vesture  (such  as  is 
needed  for  New  York  activities)  to  sublimate  the  vision. 
She  told  him  that  he  would  certainly  flee  away  from 


116  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

the  reality,  and  that  he  would  have  no  one  but  himself 
to  blame.  Visions,  she  added,  do  not  review  books  nor 
write  to  authors  whom  they  have  not  met.  All  of 
which,  she  expressed  very  lightly,  though  she  could  not 
but  adore  the  spirit  of  ideality  to  which  she  had  aroused 
his  faculties. 

At  this  time  Paula  encountered  one  of  the  im 
perishable  little  books  of  the  world,  bracing  to  her  spirit 
as  a  day's  camp  among  mountain-pines.  Nor  could  she 
refrain  from  telling  Charter  about  "  The  Practice  of 
the  Presence  of  God,"  as  told  in  the  conversations  of 
Brother  Lawrence,  a  bare-footed  Carmelite  of  the  Seven- 
teeth  Century.  "  No  wilderness  wanderings  seem  to 
have  intervened  between  the  Red  Sea  and  the  Jordan 
of  his  experience,"  she  quoted  from  the  preface,  and 
told  him  how  simple  it  was  for  this  unlearned  man  to 
be  good — a  mere  "  footman  and  soldier  "  whose  illum 
ination  was  the  result  of  seeing  a  dry  and  leafless  tree 
in  mid-winter,  and  the  thought  of  the  change  that  would 
come  to  it  with  the  Spring.  His  whole  life  thereafter, 
largely  spent  in  the  monastery  kitchen — "  a  great  awk 
ward  fellow,  who  broke  everything  " — was  conducted  as 
if  God  were  his  constantly  advising  Companion.  It  was 
a  life  of  supernal  happiness — and  so  simple  to  compre 
hend.  Charter's  reply  to  this  letter  proved  largely  in 
fluential  in  an  important  decision  Paula  was  destined  to 
make. 

Yes,  I  have  communed  with  Brother  Lawrence — carried  the 
little  volume  with  me  on  many  voyages.  I  commend  a  mind  that  is 
fine  enough  to  draw  inspiration  from  a  message  so  chaste  and 
simple.  You  will  be  interested  to  hear  that  I  have  known  another 
Brother  Lawrence — a  man  whose  holiness  one  might  describe 
as  "  humble "  or  "  lofty,"  with  equal  accuracy.  This  man  is  a 
Catholic  priest,  Father  Fontanel  of  Martinique.  His  parish  is 


The  Actress  Again  117 

in  that  amazing  little  port,  Saint  Pierre— where  Africa  and 
France  were  long  ago  transplanted  and  have  fused  together  so 
enticingly.  Lafcadio  Hearn's  country — you  will  say.  I  wonder 
that  this  inscrutable  master,  Hearn,  missed  Father  Fontanel  in 
his  studies.  ...  I  was  rough  from  the  seas  and  a  long  stretch 
of  military  campaigning,  when  my  ship  turned  into  that  lovely 
harbor  of  Saint  Pierre.  Finding  Father  Fontanel,  I  stayed  over 
several  ships,  and  the  healing  of  his  companionship  restores  me 
even  now  to  remember. 

We  would  walk  together  on  the  Morne  d'Orange  in  the  even 
ing.  His  church  was  on  the  rise  of  the  morne  at  the  foot  of  Rue 
Victor  Hugo.  He  loved  to  hear  about  my  explorations  in  books, 
especially  about  my  studies  among  the  religious  enthusiasts.  I 
would  tell  him  of  the  almost  incredible  austerities  of  certain  mys 
tics  to  refine  the  body,  and  it  was  really  a  sensation  to  hear  him 
exclaim  in  his  French  way :  "  Can  it  be  possible  ?  I  am  very 
ignorant.  All  that  I  know  is  to  worship  the  good  God  who  is 
always  with  me,  and  to  love  my  dear  children  who  have  so  much 
to  bear.  I  do  not  know  why  I  should  be  so  happy — unless  it  is 
because  I  know  so  very  little.  Tell  me  why  I  live  in  a  state  of 
continual  transport."  ...  I  can  hear  his  gentle  Latin  tones 
even  now  at  night  when  I  shut  my  eyes — see  the  lights  of  the 
shipping  from  that  cliff  road,  hear  the  Creoles'  moaning  songs 
from  the  cabins,  and  recall  the  old  volcano,  La  Montague  Pelee, 
outlined  like  a  huge  couchant  beast  against  the  low,  northern  stars. 

Father  Fontanel  has  meant  very  much  to  me.  In  all  my 
thinking  upon  the  ultimate  happiness  of  the  race,  he  stands  out 
as  the  bright  achievement.  At  the  time  I  knew  him,  there  was  not 
a  single  moment  of  his  life  in  which  the  physical  of  the  man  was 
supreme.  What  his  earlier  years  were  I  do  not  know,  of  course, 
but  I  confess  now  I  should  like  to  know.  .  .  .  The  presence 
of  God  was  so  real  to  him,  that  Father  Fontanel  did  not  under 
stand  at  all  his  own  great  spiritual  strength.  Nor  do  his  people 
quite  appreciate  how  great  he  is  among  the  priests  of  men.  He 
has  been  in  their  midst  so  long  that  they  seem  accustomed  to  his 
power.  Only  a  stranger  can  realize  what  a  pure,  shining  garment 
his  actual  flesh  has  become.  To  me  there  was  healing  in  the 
very  approach  of  this  man. 

Dear  Father  Fontanel!  All  I  had  to  do  was  to  substitute 
"  Higher  Self  "  for  "  God  "  and  I  had  my  religion — the  Practice 
of  the  Presence  of  the  Higher  Self.  Does  it  not  seem  very  clear 
to  you?  .  .  .  To  me,  God  is  always  an  abstraction — some- 


118  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

thing  of  vaster  glory  than  the  central  sun,  but  one's  Spiritual 
Body,  the  real  being,  integrated  through  interminable  lives,  from 
the  finest  materials  of  thought  and  action — this  Higher  Self  is 
the  Presence  I  must  keep  always  with  me,  and  do  I  not  deserve 
that  It  should  stand  scornfully  aloof,  when,  against  my  better 
knowledge,  I  fall  short  in  the  performance?  ...  I  think  it 
is  his  Higher  Self  which  is  so  lustrous  in  Father  Fontanel,  and 
the  enveloping  purity  which  comes  from  you  is  the  same.  About 
such  purity  there  is  nothing  icy  nor  fibrous  nor  sterile.  .  .  . 
You  are  singing  in  my  heart,  Skylark. 

The  picture  Charter  had  drawn  of  Father  Fontanel 
of  Saint  Pierre  appealed  strongly  to  Paula;  and  her 
mind's  quick  grasp  of  the  Charter  religion — the  Practice 
of  the  Presence  of  the  Higher  Self — became  one  of  her 
moments  of  illumination.  This  was  ground-down  sim 
plicity.  True,  every  idea  of  Charter's  was  based  upon 
reincarnation.  Indeed,  this  seemed  so  familiar  to  him, 
that  he  had  not  even  undertaken  to  state  it  as  one  of 
his  fundamentals.  But  had  she  cared,  she  could  have 
discarded  even  that,  from  the  present  concept.  So  to 
live  that  the  form  of  the  best  within  be  not  degraded; 
the  days  a  constant  cherishing  of  this  Invisible  Friend; 
the  conduct  of  life  constantly  adjusted  to  please  this  Com 
panion  of  purity  and  wisdom — here  was  ethics  which 
blew  away  every  cloud  impending  upon  her  Heights. 
Years  of  such  living  could  not  but  bring  one  to  the 
Uplands.  As  to  Charter,  God  had  always  been  to  her 
The  Ineffable — source  of  solar,  aye,  universal  energy — 
the  Unseen  All.  "Walking  with  God,"  "talking  with 
God,"  "  a  personal  God,"  "  presence  of  God," — these 
were  forms  of  speech  she  could  never  use,  but  the 
Higher  Self — this  white  charioteer — the  soul-body  that 
rises  when  the  clay  falls — here  was  a  Personal  God,  in 
deed. 


TENTH   CHAPTER 

PAULA  SEES  SELMA  CROSS  IN  TRAGEDY,  AND  IN 

HER  OWN  APARTMENT  NEXT  MORNING 

IS  GIVEN  A  REALITY  TO  PLAY 

SELMA  CROSS  did  not  reach  New  York  until  the 
morning  of  the  opening  day  at  the  Herriot  Theatre.  She 
was  very  tired  from  rehearsals  and  the  try-outs  along 
the  string  of  second  cities.  There  had  been  a  big  differ 
ence  of  opinion  regarding  The  Thing,  among  what  New 
Yorkers  are  pleased  to  call  the  provincial  critics.  From 
the  character  of  the  first  notices,  on  the  contrary,  it 
was  apparent  that  the  townsmen  were  not  a  little  afraid 
to  trust  such  a  startling  play  to  New  York.  Mid- 
forenoon  of  an  early  April  day,  the  actress  rapped  upon 
Paula's  door. 

"  I  have  seen  the  boards,"  Paula  exclaimed.  "  '  Selma 
Cross '  in  letters  big  as  you  are ;  and  yesterday  after 
noon  they  were  hanging  the  electric  sign  in  front  of 
the  Herriot.  Also  I  shall  be  there  to-night — since  I 
was  wise  enough  to  secure  a  ticket  ten  days  ago.  Isn't 
it  glorious  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  quite  happy  about  it,"  Selma  Cross 
said,  stretching  out  upon  the  lounge.  "  Of  course,  it's 
not  over  until  we  see  the  morning  papers.  I  was  never 
afraid — even  of  the  vitriol-throwers,  before.  You  see, 
I  have  to  think  about  success  for  Stephen  Cabot,  too." 

"  Is  he  well  ?  "  Paula  asked  hastily. 

"  Oh  yes,  though  I  think  sometimes  he's  a  martyr. 

Oh,  I  have  so  much  to  say " 

119 


120  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

"  You  said  you  would  tell  me  some  time  how  Vhrue- 
bert  first  decided  to  take  you  on,"  Paula  urged. 

"  Before  I  got  to  the  gate  where  the  star-stuff  passes 
through  ?  "  Selma  Cross  answered  laughingly.  "  That 
was  four  years  ago.  I  had  been  to  him  many  times  be 
fore  he  let  me  in.  His  chair  squeaked  under  him.  He 
looked  at  me  first  as  if  he  were  afraid  I  would  spring 
at  him.  I  told  him  what  I  could  do,  and  he  kept  re 
peating  that  he  didn't  know  it  and  New  York  didn't 
know  it.  I  said  I  would  show  New  York,  but  un 
fortunately  I  had  to  show  him  first.  He  screwed  up  his 
face  and  stared  at  me,  as  if  I  were  startlingly  original 
in  my  ugliness.  I  know  he  could  hear  my  heart  beat. 

" '  I  can't  do  anything  for  you,  Miss  Gross/  he  said 
impatiently,  but  in  spite  of  himself,  he  added,  '  Come 
to-morrow.'  You  see,  I  had  made  him  think,  and  that 
hurt.  He  knew  something  of  my  work  all  right,  and 
wondered  where  he  would  put  a  big-mouthed,  clear- 
skinned,  yellow-eyed  amazon.  The  next  day,  he  kept 
me  waiting  in  the  reception-room  until  I  could  have 
screamed  at  the  half-dressed  women  on  the  walls. 

" '  I  don't  know  exactly  why  I  asked  you  to  come 
again,'  was  his  greeting  when  the  door  finally  opened 
to  me.  '  What  was  it,  once  more,  that  you  mean  to 
do?' 

" '  I  mean  to  be  the  foremost  tragedienne,'  I  said. 

"  '  Sit  down.     Tragedy  doesn't  bay.' 

" '  I  shall  make  it  pay.' 

" '  Um-m.  How  do  you  know  ?  Some  brivate  vire 
of  yours  ? ' 

"  '  I  can  show  you  that  I  shall  make  it  pay.' 

"  '  My  Gott,  not  here !    We  will  go  to  the  outskirts.' 


Stars  of  Tragedy  121 

"  And  he  meant  it,  Paula.  It  was  mid-winter.  He 
took  me  to  a  little  summer-theatre  up  Lenox  way.  The 
place  had  not  been  open  since  Thanksgiving.  Vhruebert 
sat  down  in  the  centre  of  the  frosty  parquet,  shivering 
in  his  great  coat.  You  know  he's  a  thin-lipped,  smile- 
less  little  man,  but  not  such  a  dead  soul  as  he  looks. 
He  leaks  out  occasionally  through  the  dollar-varnish. 
Can  you  imagine  a  colder  reception?  Vhruebert  sat 
there  blowing  out  his  breath  repeatedly,  seemingly  ab 
sorbed  in  the  effect  the  steam  made  in  a  little  bar  of 
sunlight  which  slanted  across  the  icy  theatre.  That  was 
my  try-out  before  Vhruebert.  I  gave  him  some  of 
Sudermann,  Boker,  and  Ibsen.  He  raised  his  hand 
finally,  and  when  I  halted,  he  called  in  a  bartender  from 
the  establishment  adjoining,  and  commanded  me  to  give 
something  from  Camille  and  Sapho.  I  would  have  mur 
dered  him  if  he  had  been  fooling  me  after  that.  The 
bartender  shivered  in  the  cold. 

"'What  do  you  think  of  that,  Mr.  Vite- Apron?' 
Vhruebert  inquired  at  length.  He  seemed  to  be  warmer. 

"  '  Hot  stuff,'  said  the  man.  '  It  makes  your  coppers 
sizzle.' 

"  The  criticism  delighted  Vhruebert.  '  Miss  Gross, 
you  make  our  goppers  sizzle,'  he  exclaimed,  and  then 
ordered  wine  and  told  me  to  be  at  his  studio  to-morrow 
at  eleven.  That  was  the  real  winning,"  Selma  Cross 
concluded.  "  To-night  I  put  the  crown  on  it." 

Paula  invariably  felt  the  fling  of  emotions  when 
Selma  Cross  was  near.  The  latter  seemed  now  to  have 
found  her  perfect  dream ;  certainly  there  was  fresh  col 
oring  and  poise  in  her  words  and  actions.  It  was  in 
spiriting  for  Paula  to  think  of  Selma  Cross  and  Stephen 


122  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

Cabot  having  been  accepted  by  the  hard-headed  Vhrue- 
bert — that  such  a  pair  could  eat  his  bread  and  drink 
his  wine  with  merry  hearts.  It  was  more  than  in 
spiriting  for  her  to  think  of  this  vibrant  heart  covering 
and  mothering  the  physically  unfortunate.  Paula  asked, 
as  only  a  woman  could,  the  question  uppermost  in  both 
minds. 

"  Love  me  ?  "  Selma  whispered.  "  I  don't  know, 
dear.  I  know  we  love  to  be  together.  I  know  that  I 
love  him.  I  know  that  he  would  not  ask  me  to  take 
for  a  husband — a  broken  vessel " 

"  But  you  can  make  him  know  that — to  you — he  is 
not  a  broken  vessel!  .  .  .  Oh,  that  would  mean  so  little 
to  me ! " 

"  Yes,  but  I  should  have  to  tell  him — of  old  Villiers 
— and  the  other!  .  .  .  Oh,  God,  he  is  white  fire!  He 
is  not  the  kind  who  could  understand  that !  .  .  .  I  thought 
I  could  do  anything.  I  said,  '  I  am  case-hardened.  Noth 
ing  can  make  me  suffer !  .  .  .  I  will  go  my  way, — and  no 
man,  no  power,  earthly  or  occult,  can  make  me  alter 
that  way/  but  Stephen  Cabot  has  done  it.  I  would 
rather  win  for  him  to-night,  than  be  called  the  foremost 
living  tragedienne.  ...  I  think  he  loves  me,  but  there 
is  the  price  I  paid — and  I  didn't  need  to  pay  it,  for  I 
had  already  risen  out  of  the  depths.  That  was  vanity. 
I  needed  no  angel.  I  didn't  care  until  I  met  Stephen 
Cabot!" 

"  I  think — I  think,  if  I  were  Stephen  Cabot,  I  could 
forgive  that,"  Paula  said  slowly.  She  wondered  at  her 
self  for  these  words  when  she  was  alone,  and  the  little 
place  of  books  was  no  longer  energized  by  the  other's 
presence. 


Stars  of  Tragedy  123 

Selma  started  up  from  the  lounge,  stretched  her 
great  arm  half  across  the  room  and  clutched  Paula's 
hand.  There  was  a  soft  grateful  glow  in  the  big  yel 
low  eyes.  "  Do  you  know  that  means  something— 
from  a  woman  like  you?  Always  I  shall  remember 
that — as  a  fine  thing  from  my  one  fine  woman.  Mostly, 
they  have  hated  me — what  you  call — our  sisters." 

"  You  are  a  different  woman — you're  all  brightened, 
since  you  met  Stephen  Cabot.  I  feel  this,"  Paula 
declared. 

"  Even  if  all  smoothed  out  here,  there  is  still  the  old 
covenant  in  Kentucky,"  Selma  said,  after  a  moment,  and 
sprang  to  her  feet,  shaking  herself  full-length. 

"  Won't  you  tell  me  about  that,  too  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  not  now.  I  must  go  down-town.  There 
is  a  dress-maker — and  we  breakfast  together.  .  .  .  Root 
for  me — for  us,  to-night — won't  you,  dear  girl  ?  " 

"  With  all  my  heart." 

They  passed  out  through  the  hall  together — just  as 
the  elevator-man  tucked  a  letter  under  the  door.  .  .  . 
Alone,  Paula  read  this  Spring  greeting  from  Quentin 
Charter : 

I  look  away  this  morning  into  the  brilliant  East.  I  think  of 
you  there — as  glory  waits.  I  feel  the  strength  of  a  giant  to 
battle  through  dragons  of  flesh  and  cataclysms  of  Nature.  .  . 
Who  knows  what  conflicts,  what  conflagrations,  rage  in  the 
glowing  distance — between  you  and  me?  Not  I,  but  that  I 
have  strength — I  do  know.  ...  By  the  golden  glory  of  this 
wondrous  Spring  morning  which  spreads  before  my  eyes  a  world 
of  work  and  heroism  blessed  of  the  Most  High  God,  I  only  ask 
to  know  that  you  are  there — that  you  are  there.  .  .  .  While 
eternity  is  yet  young,  we  shall  emerge  out  of  time  and  distance; 
though  it  be  from  a  world  altered  by  great  cosmic  shattering — 
yet  shall  we  emerge,  serene  man  and  woman. 


124  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

You  are  there  in  the  brilliant  East.  In  good  time  I  shall  go 
to  you.  Meanwhile  I  have  your  light  and  your  song.  The  dull 
dim  brute  is  gone  from  me,  forever.  Even  that  black  prince  of 
the  blood,  Passion,  stands  beyond  the  magnetic  circle.  With  you 
there,  I  feel  a  divine  right  kingship,  and  all  the  black  princes  of 
the  body  are  afar  off,  herding  with  the  beasts.  I  tell  you1,  since  I 
have  heard  the  Skylark  sing — there  is  no  death. 

That  day  became  a  vivid  memory.  Charter  reached 
the  highest  pinnacle  of  her  mind — a  man  who  could 
love  and  who  could  wait.  The  message  from  the  West 
exalted  her.  Here,  indeed,  was  one  of  the  New  Voices. 
All  through  the  afternoon,  out  of  the  hushes  of  her 
mind,  would  rise  this  paean  from  the  West — sentence 
after  sentence  for  her.  .  .  .  No,  not  for  her  alone.  She 
saw  him  always  in  the  midst  of  his  people,  illustrious 
among  his  people.  .  .  .  She  saw  him  coming  to  her  over 
mountains — again  and  again,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of 
him,  configured  among  the  peaks,  and  striding  toward 
her — yet  between  them  was  a  valley  torn  with  storm. 
.  .  .  It  came  to  her  that  there  must  be  a  prophecy  in 
this  message;  that  he  would  not  be  suffered  to  come 
to  her  easily  as  his  letters  came.  Yet,  the  strength  he 
had  felt  was  hers,  and  those  were  hours  of  ecstasy — 
while  the  gray  of  the  Spring  afternoon  thickened  into 
dark.  Only  The  Thing  could  have  called  her  out  that 
night;  fpr  once,  when  it  was  almost  time  to  go,  the 
storm  lifted  from  the  valley  between  them.  She  saw 
his  path  to  her,  just  for  an  instant,  and  she  longed  to 
see  it  again.  .  .  . 

Paula  entered  the  theatre  a  moment  before  the  cur 
tain  rose,  but  in  the  remaining  seconds  of  light,  dis 
covered  in  the  fourth  aisle  far  to  the  right — "  the  finest, 


Stars  of  Tragedy  125 

lowest  head  "  and  the  long  white  face  of  Stephen  Cabot. 
If  a  man's  face  may  be  called  beautiful,  his  was — firm, 
delicate,  poetic, — brilliant  eyes,  livid  pallor.  And  the 
hand  in  which  the  thin  cheek  rested,  while  large  and 
chalky-white,  was  slender  as  a  girl's.  ...  In  the  middle 
of  the  first  act,  a  tall,  elderly  man  shuffled  down  the 
aisle  and  sank  into  the  chair  in  front  of  Paula,  where 
he  sprawled,  preparing  to  be  bored.  This  was  Felix 
Larch,  one  of  the  best  known  of  the  metropolitan  critics, 
notorious  as  a  play-killer. 

The  first-night  crowd  can  be  counted  on.  It  meant 
nothing  to  Vhruebert  that  the  house  was  packed.  The 
venture  was  his  up  to  the  rise  of  the  curtain.  Paula 
was  absorbed  by  the  first  two  acts  of  the  play,  but  did 
not  feel  herself  fit  to  judge.  She  was  too  intensely 
interested  in  the  career  of  Selma  Cross;  in  the  face  of 
Stephen  Cabot;  in  the  attitudes  of  Felix  Larch,  who 
occasionally  forgot  to  pose.  It  was  all  very  big  and 
intimate,  but  the  bigger  drama,  up  to  the  final  curtain, 
was  the  battle  for  success  against  the  blase  aspirations 
of  the  audience  and  the  ultra-critical  enemy  personified 
in  the  man  before  her. 

The  small  and  excellent  company  was  balanced  to  a 
crumb.  Adequate  rehearsals  had  finished  the  work. 
Then  the  lines  were  rich,  forceful  and  flowing — strange 
with  a  poetic  quality  that  "  got  across  the  footlights." 
Paula  noted  these  exterior  matters  with  relief.  Un 
questionably  the  audience  forgot  itself  throughout  the 
second  act.  Paula  realized,  with  distaste,  that  her  own 
critical  sense  was  bristling  for  trouble.  She  had  hoped 
to  be  as  receptive  to  emotional  enjoyment  as  she 
imagined  the  average  play-goer  to  be.  Though  she  failed 


126  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

signally  in  this,  her  sensibilities  were  in  no  way  outraged, 
nor  even  irritated.  On  the  contrary,  she  began  to  rise 
to  the  valor  of  the  work  and  its  performance.  The 
acting  of  Selma  Cross,  though  supreme  in  repression, 
was  haunting,  unforgettable.  Felix  Larch  had  twice 
disturbed  her  by  taking  his  seat  in  the  midst  of  the 
first  and  second  acts.  She  had  heard  that  he  rarely 
sat  out  a  whole  performance,  and  took  it  therefore  as 
a  good  omen  when  he  returned,  in  quite  a  gentlemanly 
fashion,  as  the  final  curtain  rose. 

By  some  new  mastery  of  style,  Selma  Cross  had 
managed,  almost  throughout,  to  keep  her  profile  to  the 
audience.  The  last  act  was  half  gone,  moreover,  be 
fore  the  people  realized  that  there  were  qualities  in  her 
voice,  other  than  richness  and  flexibility.  She  had  held 
them  thus  far  with  the  theme,  charging  the  massed 
consciousness  of  her  audience  with  subtle  passions.  Now 
came  the  rising  moments.  Full  into  the  light  she  turned 
her  face.  .  .  .  She  was  quite  alone  with  her  tragedy. 
A  gesture  of  the  great  bare  arm,  as  the  stage  darkened, 
and  she  turned  loose  upon  the  men  and  women  a  per 
fect  havoc  of  emptiness — in  the  shadows  of  which  was 
manifesting  a  huge  unfinished  human.  She  made  the 
people  see  how  a  mighty  passion,  suddenly  bereft  of 
its  object,  turns  to  devour  the  brain  that  held  it.  They 
saw  the  great,  gray  face  of  The  Thing  slowly  rubbed 
out — saw  the  mind  behind  it,  soften  and  run  away  into 
chaos.  There  was  a  whisper,  horrible  with  exhaustion 
— a  breast  beaten  in  the  gloom. 

Felix  Larch  swore  softly.  .  .  .  The  Thing  was  laugh 
ing  as  the  curtain  crawled  down  over  her — an  easy,  wind 
blown,  chattering  laugh.  .  .  . 


Stars  of  Tragedy  127 

The  critic  grasped  the  low  shoulders  of  a  bald, 
thin-lipped  acquaintance,  exclaiming: 

"  Where  did  you  get  that  diadem,   Lucky  One  ? " 

Paula  heard  a  hoarse  voice,  but  the  words  of  the 
reply  were  lost. 

"  Come  over  across  the  street  for  a  minute.  I  want 
a  stimulant  and  a  talk  with  you,"  Felix  Larch  added, 
wriggling  into  his  overcoat. 

There  was  a  low,  husky  laugh,  and  then  plainly  these 
words :  "  She  makes  your  goppers  sizzle — eh  ?  .  .  .  Wait 
until  I  tell  her  she  has  won  and  I'll  go  with  you,"  added 
the  queer  little  man,  whom  Paula  knew  now  to  be 
Vhruebert.  .  .  . 

The  latter  passed  along  the  emptied  aisle  toward 
Stephen  Cabot,  who  had  not  left  his  seat.  Paula  noted 
with  a  start  that  the  playwright's  head  had  dropped 
forward  in  a  queer  way.  Vhruebert  glanced  at  him,  and 
grasped  his  shoulder.  The  old  manager  then  cleared 
his  throat — a  sound  which  apparently  had  meaning  for 
the  nearest  usher,  who  hurried  forward  to  be  dispatched 
for  a  doctor.  It  was  very  cleverly  and  quietly  done.  .  .  . 
Stephen  Cabot,  who  could  see  more  deeply  than  others 
into  the  art  of  the  woman  and  the  power  of  his  own 
lines,  and  possibly  deeper  into  the  big  result  of  this 
fine  union  of  play  and  player — had  fainted  at  the 
climacteric  moment.  ...  A  physician  now  breasted  his 
way  through  the  crowd  at  the  doors,  and  The  Thing 
suddenly  appeared  in  the  nearest  box  and  darted  forward 
like  a  rush  of  wind.  She  gathered  the  insensible  one 
in  her  arms  and  repeated  his  name  low  and  swiftly. 

"  Yes,"  he  murmured,  opening  his  eyes  at  last. 

They  seemed  alone.   .   .   .   Presently  Stephen  Cabot 


128  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

laughingly  protested  that  he  was  quite  well,  and  disap 
peared  behind  the  scenes,  assisted  by  the  long,  bare 
arm  that  had  so  recently  hurled  havoc  over  the  throng. 
Paula  waited  for  a  few  moments  at  the  door  until  she 
was  assured. 

Driving  home  through  the  Park,  she  felt  that  she 
could  not  endure  another  emotion.  For  a  long  time  she 
tossed  restlessly  in  bed,  too  tired  to  sleep.  A  reacting 
depression  had  fallen  upon  her  worn  nerves.  She  could 
not  forget  the  big  structure  of  the  day's  joy,  but  sub 
stance  had  dropped  from  it.  ...  The  cold  air  sweeping 
through  her  sleeping-room  seemed  to  come  from  deso 
late  mountains.  Lost  entirely  was  her  gladness  of 
victory  in  the  Selma  Cross  achievement.  She  called 
herself  spiteful,  ungrateful,  and  quite  miserably  at  last 
sank  into  sleep.  .  .  . 

She  was  conscious  at  length  of  the  gray  of  morning, 
a  stifling  pressure  in  her  lungs,  and  the  effort  to  rouse 
herself.  She  felt  the  cold  upon  her  face;  yet  the  air 
seemed  devitalized  by  some  exhausting  voltage,  she  had 
known  before.  There  was  a  horrid  jangle  in  her  brain, 
as  of  two  great  forces  battling  to  complete  the  circuit 
there.  A  face  imploring  from  a  garret-window,  a  youth 
in  a  lion's  skin,  a  rock  in  the  desert  and  a  rock  in  the 
Park,  the  dim  hotel  parlor  and  the  figure  of  yesterday 
among  the  mountain-peaks — so  the  images  rushed  past 
— until  the  tortured  face  of  Bellingham  (burning  eyes 
in  the  midst  of  ghastly  pallor),  caught  and  held  her 
mind  still.  From  a  room  small  as  her  own,  and  gray 
like  her  own  with  morning,  he  called  to  her :  "  Come 
to  me.  .  .  .  Come  to  me,  Paula  Linster.  ...  I  have  lived 
for  you: — oh,  come  to  me !  " 


Stars  of  Tragedy  129 

She  sprang  out  of  bed,  and  knelt.  How  long  it  was 
before  she  freed  herself,  Paula  never  knew.  Indeed, 
she  was  not  conscious  of  being  actually  awake,  until 
she  felt  the  bitter  cold  and  hurried  into  the  heated  room 
beyond.  She  was  physically  wretched,  but  no  longer 
obsessed.  .  .  .  She  would  not  believe  now  that  the 
beyond-devil  had  called  again.  It  was  all  a  dream,  she 
told  herself  again  and  again — this  rush  of  images  and 
the  summons  from  the  enemy.  Yesterday,  she  had  been 
too  happy;  human  bodies  cannot  endure  so  long  such 
refining  fire;  to-day  was  the  reaction  and  to-morrow 
her  old  strength  and  poise  would  come  again.  Quite 
bravely,  she  assured  herself  that  she  was  glad  to  pay 
the  price  for  the  hours  of  yesterday.  She  called  for 
the  full  series  of  morning  papers,  resolving  to  occupy 
her  mind  with  the  critical  notices  of  the  new  play. 

These  were  quite  remarkable  in  the  unanimity  of 
their  praise.  The  Cross-Cabot  combination  had  won, 
indeed,  but  Paula  could  extract  no  buoyancy  from  the 
fact,  nor  did  black  coffee  dispel  the  vague  premonitive 
shadows  which  thickened  in  the  background  of  her  mind. 
The  rapping  of  Selma  Cross  upon  her  door  was  hours 
earlier  than  ever  before.  She,  too,  had  called  for  the 
morning  papers.  A  first  night  is  never  finished  until 
these  are  out.  Paula  did  not  feel  equal  to  expressing 
all  that  the  play  had  meant  to  her.  It  was  with  decided 
disinclination  that  she  admitted  her  neighbor. 

Selma  Cross  had  not  bathed,  nor  dressed  her  hair. 
She  darted  in  noiselessly  in  furry  slippers — a  yellow 
silk  robe  over  her  night-dress.  Very  silken  and  sensu 
ous,  the  huge,  laughing  creature  appeared  as  she  sank 
upon  the  lounge  and  shaded  her  yellow  eyes  from  the 


130  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

light.  So  perfect  was  her  health,  and  so  fresh  her 
happiness,  that  an  hour  or  two  of  sleep  had  not  left 
her  eyes  heavy  nor  her  skin  pallid.  There  was  an 
odor  of  sweet  clover  about  her  silks  that  Paula  never 
sensed  afterward  without  becoming  violently  ill.  She 
knew  she  was  wrong — that  every  fault  was  hers — but 
she  could  not  bear  the  way  her  neighbor  cuddled  this 
morning  in  the  fur  of  the  couch-covering.  Selma  had 
brought  in  every  morning  newspaper  issued  and  a  thick 
bundle  of  telegrams  besides.  Paula  told  her,  literally 
forcing  the  sentences,  how  splendidly  the  play  and  her 
own  work  had  appealed  to  her.  This  task,  which  would 
have  been  a  pure  delight  at  another  time,  was  adequately 
accomplished  only  after  much  effort  now.  It  appeared 
that  the  actress  scarcely  heard  what  she  was  saying. 
The  room  was  brightening  and  there  was  a  grateful 
piping  of  steam  in  the  heaters  of  the  apartment. 

"  So  glad  you  liked  it,  dear,"  Selma  said  briefly. 
"  And  isn't  it  great  the  way  the  papers  treated  it  ? 
Not  one  of  them  panned  the  play  nor  my  work.  .  .  . 
I  say,  it's  queer  when  a  thing  you've  dreamed  of  for 
years  comes  true  at  last — it's  different  from  the  way 
you've  seen  it  come  to  others.  I  mean  there's  some 
thing  unique  and  a  fullness  you  never  imagined.  Oh, 
I  don't  know  nor  care  what  I'm  drowning  to  say. 
.  .  .  Please  do  look  over  these  telegrams — from  every 
body!  There's  over  a  hundred!  I  had  to  come  in  here. 
I'd  have  roused  you  out  of  bed — if  you  hadn't  been  up. 
The  telephone  will  be  seething  a  little  later — and  I 
wanted  this  talk  with  you." 

Big  theatrical  names  were  attached  to  the  yellow 
messages.  It  is  a  custom  for  stage-folk  to  speed  a 


Stars  of  Tragedy  131 

new  star  through  the  first  performance  with  a  line  of 
courage — wired.  You  are  supposed  to  count  your  real 
friends  in  those  who  remember  the  formality.  It  is  not 
well  to  be  a  day  late.  .  .  . 

"  And  did  you  notice  how  Felix  Larch  uncoiled  ?  " 

Paula  looked  up  from  the  telegrams  to  explain  how 
this  critic  had  been  the  object  of  her  contemplation  the 
night  before. 

"  He  hasn't  turned  loose  in  that  sort  of  praise  this 
season,"  Selma  Cross  added.  "  His  notice  alone,  dear, 
is  enough  to  keep  us  running  at  the  Herriot  until  June 
— and  we'll  open  there  again  in  the  fall,  past  doubt." 

Paula  felt  wicked  in  that  she  must  enthuse  artificially. 
She  forced  herself  to  remember  that  ordinarily  she  could 
have  sprung  with  a  merry  heart  into  the  very  centre 
of  the  other's  happiness. 

"  Listen,  love/'  Selma  resumed,  ecstactically  hugging 
her  pillow,  "  I  want  to  tell  you  things.  I  wanted  to 
yesterday,  but  I  had  to  hurry  off.  You've  got  so  much, 
that  you  must  have  the  rest.  Besides,  it's  in  my  mind 
this  morning,  because  it  was  the  beginning  of  last 
night " 

"  Yes,  tell  me,"  Paula  said  faintly,  bringing  her  a 
cup  of  coffee. 

"  I  was  first  smitten  with  the  passion  to  act — a 
gawky  girl  of  ten  at  a  child's  party,"  Selma  began. 
"  I  was  speaking  a  piece  when  the  impulse  came  to  turn 
loose.  It  may  have  been  because  I  was  so  homely  and 
straight-haired,  or  it  may  have  been  that  I  did  the 
verses  so  differently  from  the  ordinary  routine  of  speak 
ing  pieces — anyway,  a  boy  in  the  room  laughed.  Another 
boy  immediately  bored  in  upon  the  scoffer,  downed  his 


132  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

enemy  and  was  endeavoring  hopefully  to  kill  him  with 
bare  hands,  when  I  interfered.  My  champion  and  I 
walked  home  together  and  left  a  wailing  and  disordered 
company.  That's  the  first  brush. 

"  My  home  was  Danube,  Kentucky.  They  had  a 
dramatic  society  there.  Eight  years  after  the  child's 
party,  this  dramatic  society  gave  A  Tribute  to  Art. 
Where  the  piece  came  from  is  forgotten.  How  it  got 
its  name  never  was  known  outside  of  the  sorry  brain 
that  thrust  it,  deformed  but  palpitating,  upon  the  world. 
Mrs.  Fiske  couldn't  have  made  other  than  a  stick 
of  the  heroine.  The  hero  was  larger  timber,  though 
too  dead  for  vine  leaves.  But,  I  think  I  told  y6u  about 
the  Big  Sister — put  there  in  blindness  or  by  budding 
genius.  There  were  possibilities  in  that  character. 
Danube  didn't  know  it,  or  it  wouldn't  have  fallen  to 
me.  Indeed,  I  remember  toward  the  end  of  the  piece 
— a  real  moment  of  windy  gloom  and  falling  leaves,  a 
black-windowed  farmhouse  on  the  left,  the  rest  a  deso 
late  horizon — in  such  a  moment  the  Big  Sister  plucks 
out  her  heart  to  show  its  running  death. 

"  I  had  persisted  in  dramatic  work,  in  and  out  of 
season,  during  those  eight  years,  but  it  really  was  be 
cause  the  Big  Sister  didn't  need  to  be  beautiful  that  I 
got  the  part.  I  wove  the  lines  tighter  and  sharpened 
the  thing  in  rehearsals,  until  the  rest  of  the  cast  became 
afraid,  not  that  I  would  outshine  them,  but  that  I 
might  disgrace  the  society  on  the  night  o'  nights.  You 
see,  I  was  only  just  tolerated.  Poor  father,  he  wasn't 
accounted  much  in  Danube,  and  there  was  a  raft  of 
us.  Poor,  dear  man! 

"  Danube  wasn't  big  enough  to  attract  real  shows, 


Stars  of  Tragedy  133 

so  the  visiting  drama  gave  expression  to  limited  trains, 
trap-doors,  blank  cartridges  and  falling  cliffs " — 
Selma  Cross  chuckled  expansively  at  the  memory — 
"  and  I  plunged  my  fellow-townsmen  into  waters  deeper 
and  stormier  than  Nobody's  Claim  or  Shadows  of  a 
Great  City.  Wasn't  it  monstrous  ?  " 

Paula  inclined  her  head,  but  was  not  given  time 
to  answer. 

"  A  spring  night  in  Kentucky — hot,  damp,  starlit — 
shall  I  ever  forget  that  terrible  night  of  A  Tribute  to 
Art?  All  Danube  somebodies  were  out  to  see  the 
younger  generation  perpetuate  the  lofty  culture  of  the 
place.  Grandmothers  were  there,  who  played  East 
Lynne  on  the  same  stage — before  the  raids  of  Wolfert 
and  Morgan ;  and  daddies  who  sat  like  deans,  eyes  dim, 
but  artistic,  you  know — watched  the  young  idea  progress 
upon  familiar  paths.  .  .  .  The  heroine  did  the  best  she 
could.  I  was  a  camel  beside  her — strode  about  her  rag 
ing  and  caressing.  You  see  how  I  could  have  spoiled 
The  Thing  last  night — if  I  had  let  the  passion  flood 
through  me  like  a  torrent  through  a  broken  dam  ?  That's 
what  I  did  in  Danube — and  some  full-throated  baying 
as  well.  Oh,  it  is  horrible  to  remember. 

"  The  town  felt  itself  brutalized,  and  justly.  I  had 
left  a  rampant  thing  upon  every  brain,  and  very  natur 
ally  the  impulse  followed  to  squelch  the  perpetrator 
for  all  time.  I  don't  blame  Danube  now.  I  had  been 
bad;  my  lack  of  self-repression,  scandalous.  The  part, 
as  I  had  evolved  it,  was  out  of  all  proportion  to  the 
piece,  to  Danube,  to  amateur  theatricals.  I  don't  know 
if  I  struck  a  false  note,  but  certainly  I  piled  on  the 
feeling. 


134  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

"  Can  you  imagine,  Paula,  that  it  was  an  instant 
of  singular  glory  to  me — that  climax?  .  .  .  Poor  Danube 
couldn't  see  that  I  was  combustible  fuel,  freshly  lit; 
that  I  was  bound  to  burn  with  a  steady  flame  when  the 
pockets  of  gas  were  exploded.  .  .  .  My  dazed  people 
did  not  leave  the  hall  at  once.  It  was  as  if  they  had 
taken  strong  medicine  and  wanted  to  study  the  effect 
upon  each  other.  I  came  out  from  behind  at  last,  up 
the  aisle,  sensing  disorder  where  I  had  expected  praise, 
and  was  joined  by  my  old  champion,  Calhoun  Knox, 
who  had  whipped  the  scoffer  at  the  child's  party.  He 
pressed  my  hand.  We  had  always  been  friends.  Pass 
ing  around  the  edge  of  the  crowd,  I  heard  this  sentence : 

"  '  Some  one — the  police,  if  necessary — must  pre 
vent  Selma  Cross  from  making  another  such  shocking 
display  of  herself ! ' 

"  It  was  a  woman  who  spoke,  and  the  man  at  her 
side  laughed.  I  had  no  time  nor  thought  to  check 
Calhoun.  He  stepped  up  to  the  man  beside  the  woman. 
'  Laugh  like  that  again,'  he  said  coldly,  '  and  I'll  kill 
you! ' 

"  It  seemed  to  me  that  all  Danube  turned  upon  us. 
My  face  must  have  been  mist-gray.  I  know  I  felt 
like  falling.  The  woman's  words  had  knifed  me. 

"'Oh,  you  cat-minds!'  I  flung  at  them.  Calhoun 
Knox  drew  me  out  into  the  dark.  I  don't  know  how 
far  out  on  the  Lone  Ridge  Pike  we  walked,  before  it 
occurred  to  either  of  us  to  halt  or  speak,"  Selma  Cross 
went  on  very  slowly.  "  I  think  we  walked  nearly  to 
the  Knobs.  The  night  had  cleared.  It  was  wonderfully 
still  out  there  among  the  hemp-fields.  I  knew  how  he 
was  pitying  me,  and  told  him  I  must  go  away. 


Stars  of  Tragedy  135 

" '  I  can't  stand  for  you  to  go  away,  Selma,'  Cal- 
houn  said.  '  I  want  you  to  stay  and  be  mine  always. 
We  always  got  along  together.  You  are  beautiful 
enough  to  me ! ' 

"  I  guess  it  was  hard  for  him  to  say  it,"  the  woman 
finished  with  a  laugh.  "  I  used  to  wish  he  hadn't  put 
in  that  '  enough.'  But  that  moment — it  was  what  I 
needed.  There  was  always  something  big  and  simple 
about  Calhoun  Knox.  My  hand  darted  to  his  shoulder 
and  closed  there  like  a  mountaineer's.  '  You  deserve 
more  of  a  woman  than  I  am,  Calhoun,'  I  said  impetu 
ously,  '  but  you  can  have  me  when  I  come  to  marry — 
but,  God,  that's  far  off.  I  like  you,  Calhoun.  I'd 
fight  for  you  to  the  death — as  you  fought  for  me  to 
night  and  long  ago.  I  think  I'd  hate  any  woman  who 
got  you — but  there's  no  wife  in  me  to-night.  I  have 
failed  to  win  Danube,  Kentucky,  but  I'll  win  the  world. 
I  may  be  a  burnt-out  hag  then,  but  I'll  come  back — • 
when  I  have  won  the  world — and  you  can  have  me  and 
it.  ...  Listen,  Calhoun  Knox,  if  ever  a  man  means 
husband  to  me — you  shall  be  the  man,  but  to-night/  I 
ended  with  a  flourish,  and  turned  back  home,  '  I'm  not 
a  woman — just  a  devil  at  war  with  the  world ! ' ' 

"  But  haven't  you  heard  from  him  ? "  Paula  asked, 
after  a  moment. 

"  Yes,  he  wrote  and  wrote.  Calhoun  Knox  is  the 
kind  of  stuff  that  remembers.  The  time  came  when  I 
didn't  have  the  heart  to  answer.  I  was  afraid  I'd  ask 
him  for  money,  or  ask  him  to  come  to  help  me.  Help 
out  of  Danube!  I  couldn't  do  that — better  old  Villiers. 
.  .  .  But  I  mustn't  lie  to  you.  I  went  through  the  really 
hard  part  alone.  ...  So  Calhoun's  letters  were  not 


136  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

answered,  and  maybe  he  has  forgotten.  Anyway,  before 
I  marry — he  shall  have  his  chance.  Oh,  I'll  make  it 
hard  for  him.  I  wouldn't  open  any  letter  from  Danube 
now — but  he  shall  have  his  chance " 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do?  " 

"  Why,  we'll  finish  the  season  here — and  Vhruebert 
has  promised  us  a  little  run  in  the  West  during  June. 
We  touch  Cincinnati.  From  there  I'll  take  the  Company 
down  to  Danube.  I've  got  to  win  the  world  and  Danube. 
After  the  play,  I'll  walk  out  on  the  Lone  Ridge  pike — 
among  the  hemp-fields — with  Calhoun  Knox " 

"  But  he  may  have  married " 

"  God,  how  I  hope  so !  I  shall  wish  him  kingly 
happiness — and  rush  back  to  Stephen  Cabot." 

Paula  could  not  be  stirred  by  the  story  this  morn 
ing.  She  missed,  as  never  before,  some  big  reality 
behind  the  loves  of  Selma  Cross.  There  was  too  much 
of  the  sense  of  possession  in  her  story — arm-possession. 
So  readily,  could  she  be  transformed  into  the  earthy 
female,  fighting  tooth  and  claw  for  her  own.  Paula 
could  hardly  comprehend  in  her  present  depression,  what 
she  had  said  yesterday  about  Stephen  Cabot's  capacity 
to  forgive.  .  .  .  She  was  glad,  when  Selma  Cross  rose, 
yawned,  stretched,  and  shook  herself.  The  odor  of 
sweet  clover  was  heaviness  in  the  room.  .  .  .  The  long, 
bare  arm  darted  over  the  reading-table  and  plucked  forth 
the  book  Paula  loved.  The  volume  had  not  been  hid 
den;  there  was  no  reason  why  she  should  not  have 
done  this,  yet  the  action  hurt  the  other  like  a  drenching 
of  icy  water  upon  her  naked  heart. 

"  Ho-ho — Quentin  Charter !  So  A  Damsel  Came  to 
Peter"? 


Stars  of  Tragedy  137 

"  I  think — I  hear  your  telephone, — Selma !  "  Paula 
managed  to  say,  her  voice  dry,  as  if  the  words  were  cut 
from  paper. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  must  go,  but  here's  another  story. 
A  rotten  cad — but  how  he  can  write!  I  don't  mean 
books — but  letters!  .  .  .  He's  the  one  I  told  you  about 
— the  Westerner — while  the  old  man  was  in  the  South !  " 

The  last  was  called  from  the  hall.  The  heavy  door 
slammed  between  them. 

Paula  could  not  stand — could  not  keep  her  mouth 
from  dropping  open.  Her  temples  seemed  to  be  crack 
ing  apart.  .  .  .  She  saw  herself  in  half-darkness — like 
The  Thing  last  night — beating  her  breast  in  the  gloom. 
She  felt  as  if  she  must  laugh — in  that  same  wind 
blown,  chattering  way. 


ELEVENTH  CHAPTER 

PAULA  IS  SWEPT  DEEP  INTO  A  DESOLATE  COUNTRY 

BY  THE  HIGH  TIDE,  BUT  NOTES  A  QUICK 

CHANGE  IN  SELMA  CROSS 

PAULA  wrote  a  short  letter  to  Quentin  Charter  in 
the  afternoon,  and  did  not  begin  to  regret  it  until  too 
late.  It  was  not  that  she  had  said  anything  unwise 
or  discordant — but  that  she  had  written  at  all.  .  .  . 
Her  heart  felt  dead.  She  had  trusted  her  all  to  one — 
and  her  all  was  lost.  A  little  white  animal  that  had 
always  been  warm  and  petted,  suddenly  turned  naked 
to  face  the  reality  of  winter, — this  was  the  first  sense, 
and  the  paramount  trouble  was  that  she  could  not  die 
quickly  enough.  The  full  realization  was  slow  to  come. 
Indeed,  it  was  not  until  the  night  and  the  next  day  that 
she  learned  the  awful  reaches  of  suffering  of  which 
a  desolated  human  mind  is  capable.  It  was  like  one 
of  those  historic  tides  which  rise  easily  to  the  highest 
landmarks  of  the  shore-dweller,  and  not  till  then  begin 
to  show  their  real  fury,  devastating  vast  fields  hereto 
fore  virgin  to  the  sea.  Along  many  coasts  and  in  many 
lives  there  is  one,  called  The  High  Tide.  .  .  .  Paula 
felt  that  she  could  have  coped  with  her  sorrow,  had 
this  been  a  personal  blow,  but  her  faith  in  the  race  of 
men,  the  inspiration  of  her  work,  her  dream  of  service 
— all  were  uprooted. 

She  did  not  pretend  to  deny  that  she  had  loved 
Quentin  Charter — her  first  and  loftiest  dream  of  a  mate, 
the  heart's  cry  of  all  her  womanhood.  True,  as  man 

138 


The  High  Tide  139 

and  woman,  they  had  made  no  covenant,  but  to  her 
(and  had  he  not  expressed  the  same  in  a  score  of  ways?), 
there  had  been  enacted  a  more  wonderful  adjustment, 
than  any  words  could  bring  about.  This  was  the  havoc. 
She  had  lost  more  than  a  mere  human  lover.  She 
dared  now  to  say  it,  because,  in  losing,  she  perceived 
how  great  it  had  become — the  passion  was  gone  from 
her  soul.  Her  place  in  the  world  was  desolate;  all  her 
labors  pointless.  As  a  woman,  she  had  needed  his  arms, 
less  than  an  anchorage  of  faith  in  his  nobility.  And 
how  her  faith  had  rushed  forth  to  that  upper  window 
across  the  States! 

Words — the  very  word  was  poison  to  her.  Writing 
— an  emptiness,  a  treachery.  Veritably,  he  had  torn  the 
pith  out  of  all  her  loved  books.  .  .  .  Bellingham  had 
shown  her  what  words  meant — words  that  drew  light 
about  themselves,  attracting  a  brilliance  that  blinded  her ; 
words  that  wrought  devilishness  in  the  cover  of  their 
white  light — but  Bellingham  had  not  assailed  her  faith. 
This  was  the  work  of  a  man  who  had  lifted  her  above 
the  world,  not  one  who  called  from  beneath.  Belling 
ham  could  not  have  crippled  her  faith  like  this — and 
left  it  to  die.  .  .  .  Almost  momentarily,  came  the  thought 
of  his  letters — thoughts  from  these  letters.  They  left 
her  in  a  dark — that  was  madness.  .  .  . 

And  if  they  were  false,  what  was  the  meaning  of 
her  exaltations?  Night  and  morning  she  had  looked 
into  the  West,  sending  him  all  the  graces  of  her  mind, 
all  the  secrets  of  her  heart.  He  had  told  her  of  the 
strange  power  that  had  come  to  him,  of  the  new  hap 
piness — how,  as  never  before,  he  had  felt  radiations  of 
splendid  strength.  She  had  not  hurried  him  to  her,  but 


140  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

had  read  with  ecstasy,  believing  that  a  tithe  of  his  new 
power  was  her  gift.  .  .  .  Words,  desolate,  damnable 
words.  ..."  And  I  had  thought  to  heal  and  lift  New 
York,"  she  exclaimed  mockingly,  looking  down  into  the 
gray  streets  after  the  age-long  night.  "  New  York 
holds  fast  to  her  realities — the  things  she  has  found 
sure.  It  is  well  to  be  normal  and  like  New  York !  " 

The  day  after  the  door  had  shut  upon  Selma  Cross, 
Paula  was  a  betrayed  spirit  wandering  alone  in  polair 
darkness.  She  had  not  slept,  nor  could  she  touch  food. 
Twice  the  actress  had  rapped;  repeatedly  the  telephone 
called — these  hardly  roused  her.  Letters  were  thrust 
under  her  door  and  lay  untouched  in  the  hall.  She 
was  lying  upon  the  lounge  in  the  little  room  of  books, 
as  the  darkness  swiftly  gathered  that  second  day.  All 
the  meanings  of  her  childhood,  all  the  promises  for 
fulfillment  with  the  years,  were  lost.  The  only  passion 
she  knew  was  for  the  quick  end  of  life — to  be  free  from 
the  world,  and  its  Bellinghams. 

"  God,  tell  me,"  she  murmured,  and  her  voice  sounded 
dry  and  strange  in  the  dark,  "  what  is  this  thing,  Soul, 
which  cries  out  for  its  Ideal — builds  its  mate  from  all 
things  pure,  from  dreams  that  are  cleansed  in  the  sky; 
dreams  that  have  not  known  the  touch  of  any  earthly 
thing — what  is  this  Soul,  that,  now  bereft,  cries  with 
Rachel,  '  Death,  let  me  in !'  ...  Oh,  Death,  put  me 
to  sleep — put  me  to  sleep !  " 

Voices  reached  her  from  the  hall: 

"  You  can  knock  or  ring,  sir,  if  you  like,"  the 
elevator-man  was  saying,  "but  I  tell  you  Miss  Linster 
is  not  there.  She  has  not  answered  the  'phone,  and 


The  High  Tide  141 

there  is  one  of  the  letters,  sticking  out  from  under  the 
door,  that  I  put  there  this  morning,  or  yesterday  after 
noon." 

"  When  did  you  see  her  last  ? "  The  voice  was 
Reifferscheid's. 

"  Day  before  yesterday  she  was  in  and  out.  Miss 
Cross,  the  lady  who  lives  in  this  other  apartment,  said 
she  called  on  Miss  Linster  yesterday  morning." 

"  The  point  is  that  she  left  no  word — either  with  you 
or  with  us — before  going  away.  We  are  very  good 
friends  of  hers.  Fll  ring  for  luck " 

The  bell  rang  long  and  loudly.  Paula  imagined  the 
thick  thumb  pressed  against  it,  and  the  big  troubled 
face.  She  wanted  to  answer — but  facing  Reifferscheid 
was  not  in  her  that  moment.  .  .  .  The  elevator  was  called 
from  below. 

"  No  use,"  Reifferscheid  said  finally.  "  Here's  a 
coin  for  your  trouble.  I'll  call  up  the  first  thing  in 
the  morning " 

She  heard  the  click  of  the  elevator-door,  and  the 
quick  whine  of  the  car,  sinking  in  the  shaft.  She  re 
called  that  she  had  not  been  at  The  States  for  four  or 
five  days.  She  had  intended  going  down-town  yester 
day.  .  .  .  She  thought  long  of  Reifferscheid's  genuine 
and  changeless  kindness,  of  his  constant  praise  for  sin 
cerity  anywhere  and  his  battling  for  the  preservation 
of  ideals  in  all  work.  His  faith  in  Charter  recurred 
to  her — and  his  frequently  unerring  judgments  of  men 
and  women  she  had  known.  All  about  him  was  sturdy 
and  wholesome — a  substance,  this,  to  hold  fast.  .  .  . 
Reifferscheid  had  come  in  the  crisis.  Paula  fell  asleep, 
thinking  of  snails  and  stickle-backs,  flowers  and  Sister 
Annie,  big  trees  and  solid  friends. 


142  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

She  awoke  in  a  different  world — at  least,  a  world 
in  which  tea  and  toast  and  marmalade  were  reckonable. 
Her  thoughts  went  bravely  down  into  the  depression 
for  salvage;  and  a  mind  that  can  do  this  is  not  with 
out  hope.  It  was  only  eight.  Reifferscheid  had  not 
yet  'phoned.  .  .  .  Charter  would  have  her  letter  now, 
or  soon — that  letter  written  seven  eternities  ago  in 
the  first  hysteria,  while  she  could  yet  weep.  She  could 
not  have  written  in  the  ice-cold  silence  of  yesterday. 
She  wished  that  she  had  not  let  him  see  that  she  could 
weep.  When  the  tragedy  had  risen  to  high-tide  in  her 
soul — there  had  been  no  words  for  him.  Would  she 
ever  write  again?  .  .  . 

Her  mind  reverted  now  to  the  heart  of  things.  In 
the  first  place,  Selma  Cross  would  not  intentionally  lie. 
She  asked  so  little  of  men — and  had  asked  less  a  few 
years  ago — that  to  have  her  call  one  "  cad  "  with  an 
adjective,  was  a  characterscape,  indeed.  That  she  had 
intimately  known  Quentin  Charter  three  years  before, 
was  unsettling  in  itself.  .  .  .  True,  he  made  no  pre 
tensions  to  a  righteous  past.  All  his  work  suggested 
utter  delvings  into  life.  He  had  even  hinted  a  back 
ground  that  was  black-figured  and  restlessly  stirring, 
but  she  had  believed  that  he  wrote  these  things  in  the 
same  spirit  which  prompted  the  ascetic  Thoreau  to  say, 
"  I  have  never  met  a  worse  man  than  myself."  She 
believed  that  the  evils  of  sense  were  not  so  complicated, 
but  that  genius  can  fathom  them  without  suffering  their 
defilement.  His  whole  present,  as  depicted  in  his  letters, 
was  a  song — bright  as  his  open  prairies,  and  pure  as 
the  big  lakes  of  his  country.  .  .  .  Could  she  become 
reconciled  to  extended  periods  of  physical  abandonment 


The  High  Tide  143 

in  the  Charter-past?  Faintly  her  heart  answered,  but 
quickly,  "  Yes,  if  they  are  forever  nameless."  ..."  Speci 
fic  abandonments  ? "  Her  mind  pinned  her  heart  to 
this,  with  the  added  sentence,  "  Is  it  fair  for  you  not 
to  hear  what  Selma  Cross  has  to  say — and  what  Quentin 
Charter  may  add  ?  "  .  .  . 

The  elevator-man  was  at  the  door  with  further 
letters.  He  did  not  ring,  because  it  was  so  early. 
Softly,  she  went  into  the  hall.  There  was  an  accumu 
lation  of  mail  upon  the  floor — two  from  The  States;  one 
from  Charter.  .  .  .  This  last  was  opened  after  a  struggle. 
It  must  have  been  one  of  those  just  brought,  for  it 
was  dated,  the  day  before  yesterday,  and  she  usually 
received  his  letters  the  second  morning.  Indeed,  this  had 
been  written  on  the  very  afternoon  that  she  had  penned 
her  agony. 

I  know  I  shall  be  sorry  that  I  have  permitted  you  to  find  me 
in  a  black  mood  like  this,  but  I  feel  that  I  must  tell  you.  A  sense 
of  isolation,  altogether  new,  since  first  your  singing  came,  flooded 
over  me  this  afternoon.  It  is  as  though  the  invisible  connections 
between  us  were  deranged  —  as  i£,  there  had  been  a  storm  and 
the  wires  were  down.  It  began  about  noon,  when  the  thought  of 
the  extreme  youth  of  my  soul,  beside  yours,  began  to  oppress  me. 
I  perceived  that  my  mind  is  imperiously  active  rather  than  humbly 
wise;  that  I  am  capable  of  using  a  few  thoughts  flashily,  instead 
of  being  great-souled  from  rich  and  various  ages.  Ordinarily,  I 
should  be  grateful  for  the  gifts  I  have,  and  happy  in  the  bright 
light  from  you  —  but  this  last  seems  turned  away.  Won't  you  let 
me  hear  at  once,  please? 

She  was  not  given  long  to  ponder  upon  this  strange 
proof  of  his  inner  responsiveness;  yet  the  deep  signifi 
cance  of  it  remained  with  her,  and  could  not  but  restore 
in  part  a  certain  impressive  meaning  of  their  relation. 


144  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

Selma  Cross  called,  and  ReifFerscheid  'phoned,  as  Paula 
was  just  leaving  for  down-town.  It  had  been  necessary, 
she  explained,  to  the  literary  editor  in  his  office,  for 
her  to  make  a  sorry  little  pilgrimage  during  the  past 
few  days.  She  was  very  grateful  it  was  over.  Reiffer- 
scheid  said  abruptly  that  pilgrimages  were  nefarious 
when  they  made  one  look  so  white  and  trembly. 

"  The  point  is,  you'd  better  make  another  to  Staten 
Island,"  he  added.  "  Nice  rough  passage  in  a  biting 
wind,  barren  fields,  naked  woods,  and  all  that.  Besides, 
you  must  see  my  system  of  base-burners " 

"  I'll  just  do  that — when  I  catch  up  a  little  on  my 
work,"  Paula  said.  "  I'm  actually  yearning  for  it,  but 
there  are  so  many  loose  ends  to  tie  up,  that  I  couldn't 
adequately  enjoy  myself  for  a  day  or  two.  Really,  I'm 
not  at  all  ill.  You  haven't  enough  respect  for  my 
endurance,  which  is  of  a  very  good  sort." 

"  Don't  be  too  sure  about  that,"  ReifFerscheid  said 
quickly.  "  It's  altogether  too  good  to  be  hurt.  .  .  .  Do 
you  realize  you've  never  had  your  hat  off  in  this  office  ?  " 

"  I  hadn't  thought  of  it,"  she  said,  studying  him. 
Plainly  by  his  bravado  he  wasn't  quite  sure  of  his 
ground. 

"  There  ought  to  be  legislation  against  people  with 

hair  the  color  of  yours "  Reifferscheid  regarded  her 

a  moment  before  he  added,  "  wearing  hats.  You  must 
come  over  to  Staten — if  for  no  other  reason " 

"  Oh,  I  begin  to  see  perfectly  now,"  Paula  observed. 
"  You  want  to  add  me  to  your  system  of  base-burners." 

He  chuckled  capaciously.    "  Early  next  week,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,  with  delight." 

He  did  not  tell  her  of  being  worried  to  the  point 


The  High  Tide  145 

of  travelling  far  up-town  to  ring  the  bell  of  her  apart 
ment.  She  could  not  like  him  less  for  this.  .  .  .  There 
was  a  telegram  from  Charter,  when  she  reached  home. 
In  the  next  two  hours,  a  thought  came  to  Paula  and 
was  banished  a  score  of  times ;  yet  with  each  recurrence 
it  was  more  integrate  and  compelling.  This  was  Satur 
day  afternoon.  Selma  Cross  returned  from  her  matinee 
shortly  before  six  and  was  alone.  Paula  met  her  in 
the  hall,  and  followed  into  the  other's  apartment 

"  I  have  just  an  hour,  dear.  Dimity  has  supper 
ready.  Stay,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Paula  forced  herself  to  say.  "  I  wanted  to 
ask  you  about  Quentin  Charter.  You  were  called  away 
— just  as  you  were  speaking  of  him  the  other  morn 
ing.  ...  I  have  not  met  him,  but  his  two  recent  books 
are  very  wonderful.  I  reviewed  the  second  for  The 
States.  He  thanked  me  in  a  letter  which  was  open  to 
answer." 

Selma  Cross  stretched  out  her  arms  and  laughed 
mirthlessly.  "  And  so  you  two  have  been  writing 
letters  ?  "  she  observed.  "  I'm  putting  down  a  bet  that 
his  are  rich — if  he's  interested." 

Paula  had  steeled  herself  for  this.  There  were  mat 
ters  which  she  must  learn  before  making  a  decision 
which  his  telegram  called  for.  Her  mind  held  her  in 
exorably  to  the  work  at  hand,  though  her  heart  would 
have  faltered  in  the  thick  cloud  of  misgivings. 

"  Yes,  there  is  much  in  his  letters — so  much  that  I 
can't  quite  adjust  him  to  the  name  you  twice  designated. 
Remember,  you  once  before  called  him  that — when  I 
didn't  know  that  you  were  speaking  of  Quentin  Charter." 

"  I'll  swear  this  much  also,"  Selma  Cross  said  sav 
agely  >  "  he  has  found  your  letters  worth  while." 
10 


146  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

"  Is  that  to  the  point  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes  Paula,"  the  ojther  replied,  darting  a 
queer  look  at  her.  "  If  I  am  to  be  held  to  a  point — 
it  is — because,  as  a  writer,  he  uses  what  is  of  value.  He 
makes  women  mad  about  him,  and  then  goes  back  to 
his  garret,  and  sobers  up  enough  to  write  an  essay  or 
a  story  out  of  his  recent  first-hand  studies  in  passion.'' 

"You  say  he  was  drinking — when  you  knew  him?" 

"  Enough  to  kill  another  man.  It  didn't  seem  to 
make  his  temperament  play  less  magically.  He  was 
never  silly  or  limp,  either  in  mind  or  body,  but  he  must 
have  been  burned  to  a  cinder  inside.  He  intimated  that 
he  didn't  dare  to  go  on  exhibition  any  day  before  mid- 
afternoon." 

Paula,  very  pale,  bent  forward  and  asked  calmly 
as  she  could :  "  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  just  what 
Quentin  Charter  did  to  make  you  think  of  him  always — 
in  connection  with  that  name." 

"  On  condition  that  you  will  recall  occasionally  that 
you  have  a  plate  before  you — also  supper,  which  won't 
stay  hot."  Selma  Cross  spoke  with  some  tension,  for 
she  felt  that  the  other  was  boring  rather  pointedly,  and 
it  was  not  her  time  of  day  for  confessions.  Still,  the 
quality  of  her  admiration  for  Paula  Linster  involved 
large  good  nature.  ".  .  .  .  Extraordinary,  as  it  may 
seem,  my  dear,  Charter  made  me  believe  that  he  was 
passionately  in  love.  I  was  playing  Sarah  Blixton  in 
Caller  Herrin, — my  first  success.  It  was  a  very  effec 
tive  minor  part  and  an  exceptionally  good  play.  It  took 
his  eye — my  work  especially — and  he  arranged  to  meet 
me.  Felix  Larch,  by  the  way,  took  care  of  this  formality 
for  him.  Incidentally,  I  didn't  know  Felix  Larch,  but 


The  High  Tide  147 

my  cue  was  greatly  to  be  honored.  Charter  told  me 
that  Larch  said  I  was  peculiar  for  an  actress  and  worth 
watching,  because  I  had  a  brain.  .  .  .  The  man,  Charter, 
was  irresistible  in  a  wine-room.  I  say  in  a  wine-room, 
not  that  his  talk  was  of  the  sort  you  might  expect 
there,  but  that  he  was  drinking — and  was  at  home  no 
where  else.  You  see,  he  has  a  working  knowledge  of 
every  port  in  the  world,  and  to  me  it  seemed — of  every 
book.  Then,  he  has  a  sharp,  swift,  colorful  way  of 
expressing  himself.  ...  I  told  you,  Villiers  was  away. 
I  couldn't  realize  that  it  was  merely  a  new  type  Charter 
found  in  me.  .  .  .  We  were  together  when  I  wasn't  at 
work.  It  was  a  wild  and  wonderful  fortnight — to  me. 
He  used  to  send  notes  in  the  forenoon — things  he  thought 
of,  when  he  couldn't  sleep,  he  said.  I  knew  he  was 
getting  himself  braced  in  those  early  hours.  .  .  .  Then, 
one  night  at  supper,  he  informed  me  that  he  was  leaving 
for  the  West  that  night.  He  had  only  stopped  in  New 
York,  on  the  way  home  from  Asia,  via  Suez.  I  was 
horribly  hurt,  but  there  was  nothing  for  me  to  say. 
He  was  really  ill.  The  drink  wouldn't  bite  that  night, 
he  said.  We  finished  the  supper  like  two  corpses, 
Charter  trying  to  make  me  believe  he'd  be  back  shortly. 
I  haven't  seen  him  since." 

Paula  began  to  breathe  a  bit  more  freely.  "  Didn't 
he  write  ?  " 

"  Yes,  at  first,  but  I  saw  at  once  he  was  forcing. 
Then  he  dictated  an  answer  to  one  of  mine — dictated  a 
letter  to  me "  Selma  Cross  halted.  The  lids  nar 
rowed  across  her  yellow  eyes. 

"  He  had  said  he  loved  you  ? "  Paula  asked  with 
effort. 


148  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

"  By  the  way,"  Selma  Cross  retorted,  "  did  you 
notice  that  word  '  love '  in  either  of  his  recent  books 
— except  as  a  generality  ?  " 

"  Since  you  speak  of  it,  I  do  recall  he  markedly 
avoided  it,"  Paula  said  with  consuming  interest. 

"  No,  he  didn't  use  it  to  me.  He  said  he  never  put 
it  in  a  man's  or  woman's  mouth  in  a  story.  Ah,  but 
there  are  other  words,"  she  went  on  softly.  "  The  man 
was  a  lover — beyond  dreams — impassioned." 

"About  that  dictated  letter?"  Paula  urged  hastily. 

"  Yes,  I  told  him  I  didn't  want  any  more  that  way. 
Then  Villiers  was  back,  and  beckoning  again.  The  last 
word  I  received  was  from  Charter's  stenographer.  She 
said  he  was  ill.  Oh,  I  did  hear  afterward — that  he  was 
in  a  sanatorium.  God  knows,  he  must  have  landed  there 
— if  he  kept  up  the  pace  he  was  going  when  I  knew 
him." 

In  the  moment  of  silence  which  followed,  Paula  was 
hoping  with  all  her  might — that  this  was  the  end. 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  you're  thinking !  "  Selma  said 
suddenly.  "  He  has  fascinated  you,  and  you  can't  see 
that  he's  a  rotten  cad — from  what  I've  said  so  far.  /K 
woman  can  never  see  the  meanness  of  a  man  from 
another  woman's  experience  with  him.y  She  forgives 
him  for  calling  forth  all  another  woman  has — and  then 
shaking  her  loose  like  a  soiled  bath-robe  when  one's 
tub  is  ready.  But  it's  different  when  she's  the  discarded 
woman !  .  .  .  He  was  so  deep,  I  can't  believe  he  didn't 
know  that  episodes  were  new  to  me.  Likely,  he's  had 
so  many  around  the  world,  that  he  can't  take  them 
more  seriously  from  the  woman's  angle — than  from  his 
own.  .  .  .  Quentin  Charter  was  the  first  man  to  arouse 


The  High  Tide  149 

all  my  dreams.  Can't  you  see  how  it  hurt  when  he 
turned  out  to  be — well,  that  name  you  refuse  to  utter  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course,  yes,  but  you  suggest  more,  Selma ! " 

"  He  used  me  for  '  copy,'  as  they  call  it.  His  article 
on  the  '  acting  of  stage-folk  after  hours,'  appeared  in 
a  magazine  a  few  weeks  later.  He's  always  a  saint 
in  his  garret,  you  know.  The  article  was  filled  with 
cutting  cynicism  about  stage-matters,  many  of  which  he 
had  discovered  in  the  two  weeks  with  me — and  laughed 
over  with  his  wine.  I  could  have  forgiven  that,  only 
he  made  me  believe  that  there  was  not  a  thought  apart 
from  Selma  Cross  in  his  mind  when  we  were  together. 
.  .  .  Oh,  what's  the  use  of  me  lying?  I  could  have 
forgiven  that,  anyway !  " 

"What  was  it,  you  could  not  forgive?"  Paula's 
face  was  bloodless. 

"  He  told  it  all  about — how  easy  I  had  proved  in  his 
hands !  "  the  actress  revealed  with  suppressed  fury. 

The  other  shrank  back. 

"  That's  where  the  expression  comes  in,  Paula — 
the  expression  you  hate.  Drunk  or  sober — cad's  the 
word,  ('what  a  woman  gives  to  a  man  is  put  in  his 
inner  vault  forever.  What  she  gives  to  a  cad — is  passed 
on  to  his  friends.'L) 

Paula  arose,  tortured  as  if  branded  within.  Here 
was  a  defection  of  character  which  an  entire  incarnation 
of  purity  could  not  make  whole.  It  was  true  that  in 
her  heart,  she  had  not  been  mortally  stricken  before; 
true,  as  Selma  Cross  had  so  bitterly  declared,  that  a 
woman  is  not  stayed  from  mating  with  a  man  because 
a  sister  has  suffered  at  his  hands. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say  about  the  word,  if  that  is 


150  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

true."  Paula  spoke  with  difficulty,  and  in  a  hopeless 
tone. 

"  Please,  eat  some  supper,  dear " 

There  was  heart-break  in  the  answer :  "I  cannot. 
Fm  distressed,  because  I  have  spoiled  yours.  .  .  .  You 
have  answered  everything  readily — and  it  has  hurt  you. 
.  .  .  I — feel — as — if — I — must — tell — you — why — I — 
asked — or  I  wouldn't  have  dared  to  force  questions 
upon  you.  His  letters  made  me  think  of  him  a  great 
deal.  When  you  picked  up  his  book  the  other  morn 
ing  and  said  that — why,  it  was  all  I  could  stand  for 
the  time.  His  work  is  so  high  and  brave — I  can  hardly 
understand  how  he  could  talk  about  a  woman  whose 
only  fault  was  that  she  gave  him  what  he  desired. 
Are  you  sure  he  cannot  prove  that  false  ?  " 

Selma  Cross  left  her  seat  at  the  table  and  took 
Paula  in  her  arms. 

"  How  can  he  ?  "  she  whispered.  "  The  old  man 
knew  all  about  us.  One  of  his  friends  heard  Charter 
talking  about  the  easy  virtue  of  stage  women — that  there 
were  scarcely  no  exceptions !  Charter  hinted  in  his  article 
that  acting  is  but  refined  prostitution.  Villiers  said  be 
cause  I  had  a  name  for  being  square  Charter  had  chosen 
to  prove  otherwise !  .  .  .  Then  see  how  he  dropped  me — 
not  a  word  in  three  years  from  my  memorable  lover! 
And  Villiers  knew  about  us — first  and  last !  .  .  .  I  could 
murder  that  sort — and  to  think  that  his  devil's  gift 
has  been  working  upon  you " 

"  You  have  told  me  quite  enough,  thank  you,"  Paula 
interrupted  in  a  lifeless  voice.  "  I  shall  not  see  him." 

Selma  Cross  held  her  off  at  arms'  length  to  glance 
at  her  face.  "  You  what  ?  "  she  exclaimed. 


The  High  Tide  151 

"  He  is  on  the  way  to  New  York  and  will  be  at 
the  Granville  to-morrow  afternoon,  where  he  hopes  to 
find  a  note  saying  he  may  call  here  to-morrow  night. 
There  shall  be  no  note  from  me " 

"But  did  you  write  to  him,  Paula?"  the  actress 
asked  strangely  excited. 

"  Yes — a  little  after  you  left  me  the  other  morning. 
It  was  silly  of  me.  Oh,  but  I  did  not  tell  him  what  I 
had  heard — or  who  told  me!  ...  Finish  your  supper — 
you  must  go." 

"And  how  did  you  learn  of  his  coming?" 

"  He  telegraphed  me  to-day.  That's  why  I  bothered 
you  at  your  supper " 

"  What  a  dramatic  situation — if  you  decided  to  see 
him !  "  Selma  Cross  said  intensely.  "  And  to  think — 
that  to-morrow  is  Sunday  night  and  I  don't  work !  " 

Paula  felt  brutalized  by  the  change  in  the  other's 
manner.  "  I  have  decided  not  to  see  him,"  she  re 
peated,  and  left  the  apartment 


TWELFTH  CHAPTER 

CERTAIN  ELEMENTS  FOR  THE  CHARTER  CRUCIBLE, 

AND   HIS   MOTHER'S  PILGRIMAGE  ACROSS 

THE  SANDS  ALONE  TO  MECCA 

CHARTER  had  come  a  long  way  very  swiftly  in  his 
search  for  realities.  If  it  is  required  of  man,  at  a  certain 
stage  of  evolution,  to  possess  a  working  knowledge 
of  the  majority  of  possible  human  experiences,  in  order 
to  choose  wisely  between  good  and  evil,  Charter  had, 
indeed,  covered  much  ground  in  his  thirty-three  years. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  were  few  degrees  in  the 
masonry  of  sensation,  into  which  he  had  not  been  in 
itiated.  His  was  the  name  of  a  race  of  wild,  sensual, 
physical  types;  a  name  still  held  high  in  old-world 
authority,  and  identified  with  men  of  heavy  hunting, 
heavy  dining  and  drinking.  The  Charters  had  always 
been  admired  for  high  temper  and  fair  women.  True, 
there  was  not  a  germ  of  the  present  Charter  mental 
capacity  in  the  whole  race  of  such  men  commonly  mated, 
but  Quentin's  father  had  married  a  woman  with  a  mar 
vellous  endurance  in  prayer — that  old,  dull-looking 
formula  for  producing  sons  of  strength.  A  silent  woman, 
she  was,  a  reverent  woman,  an  angry  woman,  with 
the  stuff  of  martyrdoms  in  her  veins. 

Indeed,  in  her  father,  John  Quentin,  reformer,  there 
were  stirring  materials  for  memory.  His  it  was  to  ride 
and  preach,  to  excoriate  evil  and  depict  the  good,  with 
the  blessing  of  a  living  God  shining  bright  and  directly 
upon  it.  A  bracing  figure,  this  Grandfather  Quentin, 

152 


The  Charter  Crucible  "  153 

an  ethereal  bloom  at  the  top  of  a  tough  stalk  of  Irish 
peasantry.  First,  as  a  soldier  in  the  British  army  he 
was  heard  of,  a  stripling  with  a  girl's  waist,  a  pigeon 
breast,  and  the  soul's  divinity  breathing  itself  awake 
within.  His  was  a  poet's  rapture  at  the  sight  of  morn 
ing  mists,  wrestling  with  the  daybreak  over  the  moun 
tains;  and  everywhere  his  regiment  went,  were  left 
behind  Quentin's  songs — crude  verses  of  a  minor  singer, 
never  seeking  permanence  more  than  Homer; 
and  everywhere,  he  set  about  to  correct  the  degrada 
tions  of  men,  absolutely  unscared  and  grandly  im 
provident.  A  fighter  for  simple  loving-kindness  in  the 
heart  of  man,  a  worshiper  of  the  bright  fragment  of 
truth  vouchsafed  to  his  eyes,  a  lover  of  children,  a  man 
who  walked  thrillingly  with  a  personal  God,  and  was 
so  glorified  and  ignited  by  the  spirit  that,  every  day, 
he  strode  singing  into  battle.  Such  was  John  Quentin, 
and  from  him,  a  living  part  of  his  own  strong  soul, 
sprang  the  woman  who  mothered  Quentin  Charter, 
sprang  pure  from  his  dreams  and  meditations,  and 
doubtless  with  his  prayer  for  a  great  son,  marked  in 
the  scroll  of  her  soul.  .  .  .  For  to  her,  bringing  a  man 
into  the  world  meant  more  than  a  bleak  passage  of  misery 
begun  with  passion  and  ended  with  pain. 

Hef  single  bearing  of  fruit  was  a  solitary  pilgrimage. 
From  the  hour  of  the  conception,  she  drew  apart  with 
her  own  ideals,  held  herself  aloof  from  fleshly  things, 
almost  as  one  without  a  body.  Charter,  the  strongly- 
sexed,  her  merchant-husband,  the  laughing,  scolding, 
joking  gunner;  admirable,  even  delightful,  to  Nine 
teenth  Century  men  of  hot  dinners  and  stimulated  nights 
-^•showed  her  all  that  a  man  must  not  be.  Alone,  she 


154  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

crossed  the  burning  sands ;  cleansed  her  body  and  brain 
in  the  cool  of  evenings,  expanded  her  soul  with  dreams 
projected  far  into  the  glistening  purple  heavens  and 
whispered  the  psalms  and  poems  which  had  fed  the 
lyric  hunger  of  her  father. 

It  glorified  her  temples  to  brood  by  an  open  window 
upon  the  night-sky;  to  conceive  even  the  garment's  hem 
of  that  Inspiring  Source,  to  Whom  solar  systems  are 
but  a  glowworm  swarm,  and  the  soul  of  man  mightier 
than  them  all.  Sometimes  she  carried  the  concept 
farther,  until  it  seemed  as  if  her  heart  must  cease  to 
beat:  that  this  perfecting  fruit  of  the  universe,  the 
soul  of  man,  must  be  imprisoned  for  a  time  in  the 
womb  of  woman ;  that  the  Supreme  seemed  content 
with  this  humble  mystery,  nor  counted  not  aeons  spent, 
nor  burnt-out  suns,  nor  wasting  myriads  that  devas 
tate  the  habitable  crusts — if  only  One  smile  back  at 
Him  at  last;  if  only  at  last,  on  some  chilling  planet's 
rim,  One  Worthy  Spirit  lift  His  lustrous  pinions  and 
ascend  out  of  chaos  to  the  Father. 

The  spirit  of  her  own  father  was  nearer  to  her  in 
this  wonderful  pilgrimage  than  her  husband,  to  whom 
she  was  cold  as  Etruscan  glasses  in  the  deep-delved 
earth  (yet  filled  with  what  fiery  potential  wine!).  He 
called  her  Mistress  Ice,  brought  every  art,  lure,  and 
expression  in  the  Charter  evolution  to  bear  upon  her; 
yet,  farther  and  farther  into  heights  he  could  not  dream, 
she  fled  with  her  forming  babe.  Many  mysteries  were 
cleared  for  her  during  this  exalted  period — though 
clouded  later  by  the  pangs  of  parturition.  .  .  .  Once, 
in  the  night,  she  had  awakened  with  a  sound  in  her 
room.  At  first  she  thought  it  was  her  husband,  but  she 


The  Charter  Crucible  155 

heard  his  breathing  from  the  next  chamber.  At  length 
before  her  window,  shadowed  against  the  faint  light 
of  the  sky,  appeared  the  head  and  shoulders  of  a  man. 
He  was  less  than  ten  feet  from  her,  and  she  heard  the 
rustle  of  his  fingers  over  the  dresser.  For  an  instant 
she  endured  a  horrible,  stifling,  feminine  fright,  but  it 
was  superseded  at  once  by  a  fine  assembling  of  faculties 
under  the  control  of  genuine  courage.  The  words  she 
whispered  were  quite  new  to  her. 

"  I  don't  want  to  have  to  kill  you,"  she  said  softly. 
"  Put  down  what  you  have  and  go  away — hurry." 

The  burglar  fled  quietly  down  the  front  stairs,  and 
she  heard  the  door  shut  behind  him.  Out  of  her  tremb 
ling  was  soon  evolved  the  consciousness  of  some  great 
triumph,  the  nature  of  which  she  did  not  yet  know.  It 
was  pure  ecstasy  that  the  realization  brought.  The 
courage  which  had  steadied  her  through  the  crisis  was 
not  her  own,  but  from  the  man's  soul  she  bore!  There 
was  never  any  doubt  after  that,  she  was  to  bear  a  son. 

There  is  a  rather  vital  defect  in  her  pursuing  the 
way  alone,  even  though  a  great  transport  filled  the  days 
and  nights.  The  complete  alienation  of  her  husband 
was  a  fact.  This  estranged  the  boy  from  his  father. 
Except  as  the  sower,  the  latter  had  no  part  in  the  life- 
garden  of  Quentin  Charter.  The  mother  realized  in 
later  years  that  she  might  have  ignored  less  and  ex 
plained  more.  The  fear  of  a  lack  of  sympathy  had  given 
her  a  separateness  which  her  whole  married  life  after 
ward  reflected.  She  had  disdained  even  the  minor  fem 
inine  prerogative  of  acting.  Her  husband  had  a  quick, 
accurate  physical  brain  which,  while  it  could  not  have 
accompanied  nor  supported  in  her  sustained  inspira- 


156  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

tion,  might  still  have  comprehended  and  laughingly 
admired.  Instead,  she  had  been  as  wholly  apart  from 
him  as  a  memory.  Often,  in  the  great  weariness  of 
continued  contemplation,  her  spirit  had  cried  out  for 
the  sustenance  which  only  a  real  mate  could  bring, 
the  gifts  of  a  kindred  soul.  Many  times  she  asked: 
"  Where  is  the  undiscovered  master  of  my  heart  ? " 

There  was  no  one  to  replenish  within  her  the  mighty 
forces  she  expended  to  nurture  the  spiritual  elements 
of  her  child.  A  lover  of  changeless  chivalry  might 
have  given  her  a  prophet,  instead  of  a  genius,  pitifully 
enmeshed  in  fleshly  complications.  In  her  developed 
the  concept  (and  the  mark  of  it  lived  afterward  with 
glowing  power  in  the  mind  of  her  son) — the  thrilling 
possibility  of  a  union,  in  the  supreme  sense  of  the  word, 
a  Union  of  Two  to  form  One.  .  .  . 

Charter,  the  boy,  inherited  a  sense  of  the  importance 
of  the  "  I."  In  his  earlier  years  all  things  moved 
about  the  ego.  By  the  time  of  his  first  letter  to  Paula 
Linster,  the  world  had  tested  the  Charter  quality,  but 
to  judge  by  the  years  previous,  more  specifically  by  the 
decade  bounded  by  his  twentieth  and  thirtieth  birthdays, 
it  would  have  appeared  that  apart  from  endowing  the 
young  man  with  a  fine  and  large  brain-surface,  the 
Charter  elements  had  triumphed  over  the  mother's  medi 
tations.  To  a  very  wise  eye,  acquainted  with  the  psychic 
and  material  aspects  of  the  case,  the  fact  would  have 
become  plain  that  the  hot,  raw  blood  of  the  Charters 
had  to  be  cooled,  aged,  and  refined,  before  the  exalted 
spirit  of  the  Quentins  could  manifest  in  this  particular 
instrument.  It  would  have  been  a  very  fascinating 
natural  experiment  had  it  not  been  for  the  fear  that 
the  boy's  body  would  be  destroyed  instead  of  refined. 


The  Charter  Crucible  157 

His  mother's  abhorrence  for  the  gross  animalism  of 
drink,  as  she  discovered  it  in  her  husband  (though  the 
tolerant  world  did  not  call  him  a  drunkard),  was  by 
no  means  reflected  intact  in  the  boy's  mind.  A  vast 
field  of  surface-tissue,  however,  was  receptive  to  the 
subject.  Quentin  was  early  interested  in  the  effects  of 
alcohol,  and  entirely  unafraid.  He  had  the  perversity 
to  believe  that  many  of  his  inclinations  must  be  worn- 
out,  instead  of  controlled.  As  for  his  ability  to  control 
anything  about  him,  under  the  pressure  of  necessity, 
he  had  no  doubt  of  this.  Drink  played  upon  him  warmly. 
His  young  men  and  women  associates  found  the  stimu 
lated  Charter  an  absolutely  new  order  of  human  en 
chantment — a  young  man  lit  with  humor  and  wisdom, 
girded  with  chivalry,  and  a  delight  to  the  emotions. 
Indeed,  it  was  through  these  that  the  young  man's 
spirit  for  a  space  lost  the  helm.  It  was  less  for  his 
fine  physical  attractions  than  for  the  play  of  his  emotions 
that  his  intimates  loved  him.  From  his  moods  emanated 
what  seemed  to  minds  youthful  as  his  own,  all  that  was 
brave  and  true  and  tender.  An  evening  of  wine,  and 
Charter  dwelt  in  a  house  of  dreams,  to  which  came 
fine  friendships,  passionate  amours,  the  truest  of  verses 
and  the  sweetest  songs.  Often  he  came  to  dwell  in  this 
house,  calling  it  life — aud  his  mother  wept  her  nights 
away.  Her  husband  was  long  dead,  but  she  felt  that 
something,  named  Charter,  was  battling  formidably  for 
the  soul  of  her  boy.  She  was  grateful  for  his  fine 
physique,  grateful  that  his  emotions  were  more  deli 
cately  attuned  than  any  of  his  father's  breed,  but  she 
had  not  prayed  for  these.  She  knew  the  ghastly 
mockeries  which  later  come  to  haunt  these  houses  of 


158  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

dreams.  Such  was  not  her  promise  of  fulfilment.  She 
had  not  crossed  the  deserts  and  mountains  alone  to 
Mecca  for  a  verse-maker — a  bit  of  proud  flesh  for  women 
to  adore.  .  .  .  Charter,  imperious  with  his  stimulus, 
wise  in  his  imagined  worldliness,  thought  he  laughed 
away  his  mother's  fears. 

"  I  am  a  clerk  of  the  emotions,"  he  once  told  her. 
"  To  depict  them,  I  must  feel  them  first." 

And  the  yellow  devil  who  built  for  him  his  house 
of  dreams  coarsened  his  desires  as  well,  and  wove  a  husk, 
fibrous,  warm,  and  red,  about  his  soul.  The  old  flesh- 
mother,  Earth,  concentred  upon  him  her  subtlest  cur 
rents  of  gravity;  showed  him  her  women  in  garments 
of  crushed  lilies;  promised  him  her  mysteries  out  of 
Egypt — how  he  should  change  the  base  metal  of  words 
into  shining  gold;  sent  unto  him  her  flatterers  calling 
him  great,  years  before  his  time;  calling  him  Emotion's 
Own  Master  and  Action's  Apostle ;  and  her  sirens  lured 
him  to  the  vine-clad  cliffs  with  soft  singing  that  caressed 
his  senses.  Because  his  splendid  young  body  was  aglow, 
he  called  it  harmony — this  wind  wailing  from  the  bar- 
rens.,x*TT  As  if  harmony  could  come  out  of  hell. 

Old  Mother  Earth  with  her  dead-souled  moon — 
how  she  paints  her  devils  with  glory  for  the  eye  of  a 
big-souled  boy;  painting  dawns  above  her  mountains 
of  dirt,  and  sunsets  upon  her  drowning  depths  of  sea; 
painting  scarlet  the  lips  of  insatiable  women,  and  roses 
in  the  heart  of  her  devouring  wines — always  painting! 
Look  to  Burns  and  Byron — who  bravely  sang  her 
pictures — and  sank. 

There  are  vital  matters  of  narrative  in  this  decade 
of  Charter's  between  twenty  and  thirty.  Elements  of 


The  Charter  Crucible  159 

the  world-old  conflict  between  the  animal  and  the  soul 
are  never  without  human  interest;  but  this  is  a  history 
of  a  brighter  conquest  than  any  victory  over  the  senses 
alone.  .  .  .  Even  restless  years  of  wandering  are  only 
suggested.  Yet  one  cannot  show  how  far  into  the 
heights  Charter  climbed,  without  lifting  for  a  moment 
the  shadow  from  the  caverns,  wherein  he  finally  awoke, 
and  wrestled  with  demons  towards  the  single  point  of 
light — on  the  rising  road. 


THIRTEENTH   CHAPTER 

"NO  MAN  CAN  ENTER  INTO  A  STRONG   MAN'S 

HOUSE,  AND  SPOIL  HIS  GOODS,  EXCEPT 

HE  WILL  FIRST  BIND  THE 

STRONG  MAN" 

CHARTER  had  always  been  able  to  stop  drinking 
when  thoroughly  disgusted  with  its  effects,  but  his  final 
abandonment,  three  years  before  the  Skylark  letters, 
had  lasted  long — up  the  Yangtse  to  the  Gorges,  back 
to  Shanghai,  and  around  the  Straits  and  Mediterranean 
to  New  York,  where  he  had  met  Selma  Cross;  indeed, 
for  many  weeks  after  he  had  reached  his  own  city  in 
the  Mid- West.  He  had  now  fallen  into  the  condition 
in  which  work  was  practically  impossible.  In  the  early 
stages,  he  had  known  brief  but  lightning  passages  of 
expression,  when  his  hands  moved  with  magical  speed 
upon  his  machine,  and  his  thoughts  even  faster,  break 
ing  in  upon  achievement  three  or  four  times  in  a  half- 
hour  to  snatch  his  stimulant.  Always  in  the  midst  of 
this  sort  of  activity,  he  felt  that  his  work  was  of  the 
highest  character.  The  swift  running  of  his  brain  under 
the  whip  appeared  record-breaking  to  the  low  vanity  of 
a  sot  It  was  with  shame  that  he  regarded  his  posted 
time-card,  after  such  a  race.  Yet  he  had  this  to  say 
of  the  whole  work-drink  matter:  When  at  his  brief 
best  under  stimulus,  a  condition  of  mind  precarious  to 
reach  and  never  to  be  counted  upon,  the  product  balanced 
well  with  the  ordinary  output,  the  stuff  that  came  in 
quantities  from  honest,  healthy  faculties.  In  a  word,  an 

160 


The  Strong  Man  Bound  161 

occasional  flashy  peak  standing  forth  from  a  streaky, 
rime-washed  pile  reckoned  well  with  the  easy  levels  of 
highway  routine. 

During  his  first  days  at  home  he  would  occupy  entire 
forenoons  in  the  endeavor  to  rouse  himself  to  a  pitch 
of  work.  Not  infrequently  upon  awakening,  he  swal 
lowed  a  pint  of  whiskey  in  order  to  retain  four  or  five 
ounces.  Toward  mid-afternoon,  still  without  having 
eaten,  he  would  draw  up  his  chair  before  the  type- 
mill  to  wait,  and  only  a  finished  curse  would  evolve  from 
the  burned  and  stricken  surfaces  of  his  brain.  If,  in 
deed,  passable  copy  did  come  at  last,  Charter  invariably 
banished  restraint,  drinking  as  frequently  as  the  im 
pulse  came.  Clumsiness  of  the  fingers  therefore  fre 
quently  intervened  just  as  his  sluggish  mind  unfolded; 
and  in  the  interval  of  calling  his  stenographer  out  of 
the  regular  hours,  the  poor  brain  babes,  still-born,  were 
fit  only  for  burial. 

Often,  again  (for  he  could  not  live  decently  with 
himself  without  working),  he  would  spend  the  day  in 
fussy  preparation  for  a  long,  productive  evening.  The 
room  was  at  a  proper  temperature ;  the  buffet  admirably 
stocked ;  pipes,  cigars,  and  cigarettes  at  hand ;  his 
stenographer  in  her  usual  mood  of  delightful  negation — 
when  an  irresistible  impulse  would  seize  his  mind  with 
the  necessity  of  witnessing  a  certain  drama,  absolutely 
essential  to  inspiration.  Again,  with  real  work  actually 
begun,  his  mind  would  bolt  into  the  domains  of  cor 
respondence,  or  some  little  lyric  started  a  distracting 
hum  far  back  in  his  mind.  The  neglected  thing  of 
importance  would  be  lifted  from  the  machine,  and  the 
letters  or  the  verses  put  under  weigh.  In  the  case  of 
11 


162  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

the  latter,  he  would  often  start  brilliantly  with  a  true 
subconscious  ebullition — and  cast  the  thing  aside,  never 
to  be  finished,  at  the  first  hitch  in  the  rhyme  or  ob 
scurity  in  thought.  Then  he  would  find  himself  apologiz 
ing  slavishly  for  Asiatic  fever  to  the  woman  who  helped 
him — whose  unspoken  pity  he  sensed,  as  hardened  ar 
teries  feel  the  coming  storm.  Alone,  he  would  give  way 
to  furious  hatred  for  himself  and  his  degradation,  and 
by  the  startling  perversity  of  the  drunken,  hurry  into  a 
stupor  to  stifle  remorse.  Prospecting  thus  in  the  abysses, 
Charter  discovered  the  outcroppings  of  dastardly  little 
vanities  and  kindred  nastiness  which  normally  he  could 
not  have  believed  to  exist  in  his  composite  or  in  the 
least  worthy  of  his  friends.  A  third  trick  drink  played 
upon  him  when  he  was  nicely  prepared  for  a  night  of 
work.  The  summons  which  he  dared  not  disregard  since 
it  came  now  so  irregularly — to  dine — would  sound  im 
periously  in  the  midst  of  the  first  torture-wrung  page, 
probably  for  the  first  time  since  the  night  before.  In 
the  actual  illness,  which  followed  partaking  of  the  most 
delicate  food,  work  was,  of  course,  out  of  the  question. 
Finally,  the  horrors  closed  in  upon  his  nights.  The 
wreck  that  could  not  sleep  was  obsessed  with  passions, 
even  perversions — how  curiously  untold  are  these  abom 
inations — until  a  place  where  the  wreck  lay  seemed 
permeated  with  the  foulest  conceptions  of  the  dark. 
What  pirates  board  the  unhelmed  mind  of  the  drunken 
to  writhe  and  lust  and  despoil  the  alien  decks — wing 
less,  crawling  abdomens,  which,  even  in  the  shades,  are 
but  the  ganglia  of  appetite!  ...  A  brand  of  realism, 
this,  whose  only  excuse  is  that  it  carries  the  red  lamps 
of  peril. 


The  Strong  Man  Bound  163 

At  the  end  of  months  of  swift  and  dreadful  dissipa 
tion,  Charter  determined  abruptly  to  stop  his  self-poison 
ing  on  the  morning  of  his  Thirtieth  birthday.  Coming 
to  this  decision  within  a  week  before  the  date,  so  con 
fident  was  he  of  strength,  that  instead  of  making  the 
end  easy  by  graduating  the  doses  in  the  intervening 
days,  he  dropped  the  bars  of  conduct  altogether,  and 
was  put  to  bed  unconscious  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the 
last.  He  awoke  in  the  night,  and  slowly  out  of  physical 
agony  and  mental  horror  came  the  realization  that  the 
hour  of  fighting-it-out-alone  was  upon  him.  He  shud 
dered  and  tried  to  sleep,  cursed  himself  for  losing  con 
sciousness  so  early  in  the  day  without  having  prepared 
his  mind  for  the  ordeal.  Suddenly  he  leaped  out  of 
bed,  turned  on  the  lights,  and  found  his  watch.  With  a 
cry  of  joy,  he  discovered  that  it  was  seven  minutes 
before  twelve.  In  the  next  seven  minutes,  he  prepared 
himself  largely  from  a  quart  bottle,  and  lay  down  again 
as  the  midnight-bells  relayed  over  the  city.  Ordinarily, 
sleep  would  have  come  to  him  after  such  an  application 
in  the  midst  of  the  night,  but  the  thought  assumed  dimen 
sions  that  the  bells  had  struck.  He  thought  of  his 
nights  on  the  big,  yellow  river  in  China,  and  of  the 
nearer  nights  in  New  York.  There  was  a  vague  haunt 
about  the  latter — as  of  something  neglected.  He  thought 
of  the  clean  boy  he  had  been,  and  of  the  scarred  mental 
cripple  he  must  be  from  now  on.  ...  In  all  its  circling, 
his  mind  invariably  paused  at  one  station — the  diminished 
quart  bottle  on  the  buffet.  He  arose  at  last,  hot  with 
irritation,  poured  the  remaining  liquor  into  the  -wash 
basin,  and  turned  on  the  water  to  cleanse  even  the 
odor  away.  For  a  moment  he  felt  easier,  as  if  the 


164  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

Alan  stirred  within  him.  Here  he  laughed  at  himself 
low  and  mockingly — for  the  Man  was  the  whiskey  he 
had  drunk  in  the  seven  minutes  before  twelve. 

Now  the  thought  evolved  to  hasten  the  work  of 
systemic  cleansing,  begun  with  denial.  At  the  same  time, 
he  planned  that  this  would  occupy  his  mind  until  day 
light  He  prepared  a  hot  tub,  drinking  hot  water  at 
the  same  time — glass  after  glass  until  he  was  as  sen 
sitive  within  as  only  a  fresh-washed  sore  can  be.  In 
ternally,  the  difference  between  hot  and  cold  water  is 
just  the  difference  between  pouring  the  same  upon  a 
greasy  plate.  The  charred  flaccid  passages  in  due  time 
were  flushed  free  from  its  sustaining  alcohol ;  and  every 
exterior  pore  cratered  with  hot  water  and  livened  to 
the  quick  with  a  rough  towel.  Long  before  he  had 
finished,  the  trembling  was  upon  him,  and  he  sweated 
with  fear  before  the  reaction  that  he  had  so  ruthlessly 
challenged  in  washing  the  spirit  from  his  veins. 

Charter  rubbed  the  steam  from  the  bath-room  win 
dow,  shaded  his  eyes,  and  looked  for  the  daylight  which 
was  not  there.  Stars  still  shone  clear  in  the  unwhitened 
distances.  Why  was  he  so  eager  for  the  dawn?  It  was 
the  drunkard  in  him — always  frightened  and  restless, 
even  in  sleep,  while  buffets  are  closed.  This  is  so,  even 
though  a  filled  flask  cools  the  fingers  that  grope  under 
the  pillow.  .  .  .  Any  man  who  has  ever  walked  the  streets 
during  the  two  great  cycles  of  time  between  three  and 
five  in  the  morning,  waiting  for  certain  sinister  doors 
to  open,  does  not  cease  to  shiver  at  the  memory  even 
in  his  finer  years.  It  is  not  the  discordant  tyranny  of 
nerves,  nor  the  need  of  the  body,  pitiful  and  actual 
though  it  is,  wherein  the  terror  lies, — but  living,  walk- 


The  Strong  Man  Bound  165 

ing  with  the  consciousness  that  the  devil  is  in  power; 
that  you  are  the  debauched  instrument  of  his  lust, 
putting  away  the  sweet  fragrant  dawn  for  a  place  of 
cuspidors,  dormant  flies,  sticky  woods,  where  bleared, 
saturated  messes  of  human  flesh  sneak  in,  even  as  you, 
to  lick  their  love  and  their  life.  .  .  .  That  you  have 
waited  for  this  moment  for  hours — oh,  God! — while  the 
fair  new  day  comes  winging  over  mountains  and  lakes, 
bringing,  cleansed  from  interstellar  spaces,  the  purity  of 
lilies,  new  mysteries  of  love,  the  ruddy  light  of  roses 
and  heroic  hopes  for  clean  men — that  you  should  hide 
from  this  adoring  light  in  a  dim  place  of  brutes,  a 
place  covered  with  the  psychic  stains  of  lust;  that 
you  should  run  from  clean  gutters  to  drink  this  hell- 
seepage. 

He  asked  himself  why  he  thirsted  for  light.  If 
every  door  on  his  floor  were  a  saloon,  he  would  not 
have  entered  the  nearest.  And  yet  a  summer  dawn 
was  due.  Hours  must  have  passed  since  midnight. 
He  glanced  into  the  medicine-case  before  turning  off 
the  lights  in  the  bath-room.  Alcohol  was  the  base  in 
many  of  the  bottles;  this  thought  incited  fever  in  his 
brain.  .  .  .  He  could  hardly  stand.  A  well-man  would 
have  been  weakened  by  the  processes  of  cleansing  he 
had  endured.  The  blackness,  pressing  against  the  outer 
window,  became  the  form  of  his  great  trouble.  "  I 
wish  the  day  would  come,"  he  said  aloud.  His  voice 
frightened  him.  It  was  like  a  whimper  from  an  insane 
ward.  He  hastened  to  escape  from  the  place,  now  hate 
ful. 

The  chill  of  the  hall,  as  he  emerged,  struck  into 
his  flesh,  a  polar  blast.  Like  an  animal  he  scurried 


166  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

to  the  bed  and  crawled  under  cover,  shaking  con 
vulsively.  His  watch  ticked  upon  the  bed-post.  Pres 
ently  he  was  burning — as  if  hot  cloths  were  quickly 
being  renewed  upon  his  flesh.  Yet  instantaneously  upon 
lifting  the  cover,  the  chill  would  seize  him  again. 
Finally  he  squirmed  his  head  about  until  he  could  see 
his  watch.  Two-fifteen,  it  said.  Manifestly,  this  was  a 
lie.  He  had  not  wound  the  thing  the  night  before, 
though  its  ticking  filled  the  room.  He  recalled  that 
when  he  was  drinking,  frequently  he  wound  his  watch 
a  dozen  times  a  day,  or  quite  as  frequently  forgot  it 
entirely.  At  all  events,  it  was  lying  now.  Thoughts  of 
the  whiskey  he  had  poured  out,  of  the  drugs  in  the 
medicine-case,  controlled.  He  needed  a  drink,  and  noth 
ing  but  alcohol  would  do.  This  is  the  terrible  thing. 
Without  endangering  one's  heart,  it  is  impossible  to 
take  enough  morphine  to  deaden  a  whiskey  reaction. 
A  little  only  horrifies  one's  dreams.  There  is  no 
bromide.  He  cried  out  for  the  poison  he  had  washed 
away  from  his  veins.  This  would  have  been  a  crutch 
for  hours.  In  the  normal  course  of  bodily  waste,  he 
would  not  have  been  brought  to  this  state  of  need  in 
twenty-four  hours.  He  felt  the  rapping  of  old  familiar 
devils  against  his  brain.  He  needed  a  drink. 

The  lights  were  turned  on  full  in  his  room.  The 
watch  hanging  above  his  head  ticked  incessant  lies  re 
garding1  the  energy  of  passing  time.  He  could  lose  him 
self  in  black  gorges  of  agony,  grope  his  way  back  to 

find  that  the  minute  hand  had  scarcely  stirred 

He  lay  perfectly  rigid  until  a  wave,  half  of  drowsiness, 
half  of  weakness,  slowed-down  the  vibrations  of  his 
mind.  .  .  .  Somewhere  in  the  underworld,  he  found  a 


The  Strong  Man  Bound  167 

consciousness — a  dank  smell,  the  dimness  of  a  cave; 
the  wash  of  fins  gliding  in  lazy  curves  across  the  black, 
sluggish  water;  an  eye,  green,  steadfast,  ashine  like 
phosphor  which  is  concentrated  decay, — the  eye  of  rapac 
ity  gorged.  His  nostrils  filled  with  the  foreign  odor  of 
menageries  and  aquariums.  A  brief  hiatus  now,  in 
which  objects  altered.  A  great  weight  pressed  against 
his  chest,  not  to  hurt,  but  to  fill  his  consciousness  with 
the  thought  of  its  cold  crushing  strength;  the  weight 
of  a  tree-trunk,  the  chill  of  stone,  the  soft  texture  of 
slimy  flesh.  .  .  .  Full  against  him  upon  the  rock,  in  his 
half-submerged  cavern,  lay  the  terror  of  all  his  ob 
sessions — the  crocodile.  Savage  incarnations  were 
shaken  out  of  his  soul  as  he  regarded  this  beast,  a 
terror  so  great  that  his  throat  shut,  his  spine  stiffened. 
Still  as  a  dead  tree,  the  creature  pressed  against  him, 
bulging  stomach,  the  narrow,  yellow-brown  head,  move 
less,  raised  from  the  rock.  This  was  the  armed  ab 
domen  he  feared  most — cruelty,  patience,  repletion — and 
the  dirty-white  of  nether  parts !  .  .  .  He  heard  the  scream 
within  him — before  it  broke  from  his  throat. 

Out  of  one  of  these,  Charter  emerged  with  a  cry, 
wet  with  sweat  as  the  cavern-floor  from  which  he 
came — to  find  that  the  minute-hand  of  his  watch  had 
not  traversed  the  distance  between  two  Roman  numerals. 
He  seized  the  time-piece  and  flung  it  across  the  room, 
lived  an  age  of  regret  before  it  struck  the  walnut  edge 
of  his  dresser  and  crashed  to  the  floor.  .  .  .  The  sounds 
of  running-down  fitted  to  words  in  his  brain. 

"Tick — tick!  .  .  .  tick-tick-tick."  A  spring  rattled 
a  disordered  plaint ;  then  after  a  silence :  "  I  served 
you— did  my  work  well — very  well — very  well !  "  .  .  . 


168  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

Charter  writhed,  wordlessly  imploring  it  to  be  still.  It 
was  not  the  value,  but  the  sentient  complaining  of  a 
thing  abused.  Faithful,  and  he  had  crushed  it.  He 
felt  at  last  in  the  silence  that  his  heart  would  stop  if 
it  ticked  again;  and  as  he  waited,  staring  at  it,  his 
mind  rushed  off  to  a  morning  of  boyhood  and  terrible 
cruelty.  ...  He  had  been  hunting  at  the  edge  of  a 
half-cleared  bit  of  timber.  A  fat  gray  squirrel  raced 
across  the  dead  leaves,  fully  sixty  yards  away — its  mate 
following  blithely.  The  leader  gained  the  home-tree  as 
Charter  shot,  crippling  the  second — the  male.  It  was  a 
long  shot  and  a  very  good  one,  but  the  boy  forgot 
that.  The  squirrel  tried  to  climb  the  tree,  but  could 
not.  It  crawled  about,  uncoupled,  among  the  roots,  and 
answered  the  muffled  chattering  from  the  hole  above — 
this,  as  the  boy  came  up,  his  breast  filling  with  the 
deadliest  shame  he  had  ever  known.  The  squirrel  told 
him  all,  and  answered  his  mate  besides.  It  was  not  a 
chatter  for  mercy.  The  little  male  was  cross  about  it — 
bewildered,  too,  for  its  life-business  was  so  important. 
The  tortured  boy  dropped  the  butt  of  his  gun  upon  the 
creature's  head.  .  .  .  Now  the  tone  changed — the  flat 
tened  head  would  not  die.  .  .  .  He  had  fled  crying  from 
the  thing,  which  haunted  him  almost  to  madness.  He 
begged  now,  as  the  old  thoughts  of  that  hour  began  to 
run  about  in  the  deep-worn  groove  of  his  mind.  .  .  . 
And  as  he  had  treated  the  squirrel,  the  watch — so  he 
was  treating  his  own  life.  .  .  . 

Again  he  was  called  to  consciousness  by  some  one 
uttering  his  name.  He  answered.  The  apartment 
echoed  with  the  flat,  unnatural  cry  of  his  voice ;  silence 
mocking  him.  .  .  .  Then,  in  delusion,  he  would  find 


The  Strong  Man  Bound  169 

himself  hurrying  across  the  yard,  attracted  by  some 
psychic  terror  of  warning.  Finally,  as  he  opened  the 
stable-door,  sounds  of  a  panting  struggle  reached  him 
from  the  box-stall  where  he  kept  his  loved  saddle-mare. 
Light  showed  him  that  she  had  broken  through  the 
flooring,  and,  f  renziedly  struggling  to  get  her  legs  clear 
from  the  wreck,  had  torn  the  skin  and  flesh  behind,  from 
hoof  to  hock.  He  saw  the  yellow  tendons  and  the 
gleaming  white  bone.  She  was  half-up,  half-down,  the 
smoky  look  of  torture  and  accusation  in  her  brown 
eyes.  .  .  . 

Finally  camie  back  his  inexorable  memories — one 
after  another,  his  nights  of  degraded  passion;  the 
memory  of  brothels,  where  drunkenness  had  carried  him  ; 
songs,  words,  laughter  he  had  heard;  pictures  on  the 
walls;  combs,  cards,  cigarettes  of  the  dressing-tables, 
low  ceilings  and  noisome  lamps;  that  individual  some 
thing  about  each  woman,  and  her  especial  perversion; 
peregrinations  among  the  lusts  of  half  the  world's  ports, 
where  a  man  never  gets  so  low  that  he  cannot  fall  into 
a  woman's  arms.  How  they  had  clung  to  him  and 
begged  him  to  come  back!  His  nostrils  filled  again 
with  sickening  perfumes  that  never  could  overpower 
the  burnt  odor  of  harlot's  hair.  Down  upon  him  these 
horrors  poured,  until  he  was  driven  to  the  floor  from 
the  very  foulness  of  the  place  wherein  he  lay,  but  a 
chill  struck  his  heart  and  forced  him  back  into  the  nest 
of  sensual  dreams.  .  .  . 

Constantly  he  felt  that  dry  direct  need  for  cigarette 
inhalation — that  nervous  craving  which  makes  a  man 
curse  viciously  at  the  break  of  a  match  or  its  missing 
fire — but  his  heart  responded  instantly  to  the  mild  poison- 


170  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

ing,  a  direct  and  awful  pounding  like  the  effect  of 
cocaine  upon  the  strong,  and  his  sickness  was  intensified. 
So  he  would  put  the  cigarette  down,  lest  the  aorta 
burst  within  him — only  to  light  the  pest  again  a  moment 
later. 

He  could  feel  his  liver,  a  hot  turgid  weight;  even, 
mark  its  huge  boundary  upon  the  surface  of  his  body. 
Back  of  his  teeth,  began  the  burning  insatiable  passage, 
collapsing  for  alcohol  in  every  inch  of  its  coiled  length ; 
its  tissues  forming  an  articulate  appeal  in  his  brain: 
"  You  have  filled  us  with  burning  for  weeks  and  months, 
until  we  have  come  to  rely  upon  the  false  fire.  Take 
this  away  suddenly  now  and  we  must  die.  We  cannot 
keep  you  warm,  even  alive,  without  more  of  the  fuel 
which  destroyed  us.  We  do  not  want  much — just 
enough  to  help  us  until  we  rebuild  our  own  energy." 
And  his  brain  reiterated  a  warning  of  its  own.  "  I, 
too,  am  charred  and  helpless.  The  devils  run  in  and 
out  and  over.  I  have  no  resistance.  I  shall  open  en 
tirely  to  them — unless  you  strengthen  me  with  fire.  You 
are  doing  a  very  wicked  and  dangerous  thing  in  stopping 
short  like  this.  Deserted  of  me,  you  are  destitute,  in 
deed." 

Charter  felt  his  unshaven  mouth.  It  was  soft  and 
fallen  like  an  imbecile's.  A  man  in  hell  does  not  curse 
himself.  He  saw  himself  giving.  He  felt  that  he  was 
giving  up  life  and  its  every  hope,  but  the  fear  of  mad 
ness,  or  driveling  idiocy,  was  worse  than  this.  He  would 
drink  for  nerve  to  kill  himself  decently.  The  abject 
powerlessness  of  his  will  was  the  startling  revelation. 
He  had  played  with  his  will  many  times,  used  it  to 
drink  when  its  automatic  action  was  to  refrain.  Always 


The  Strong  Man  Bound  171 

he  had  felt  it  to  be  unbreakable,  until  now.  He  was 
a  yellow,  cowering  elemental,  more  hideous  and  pitiable 
than  prohibition-orator  ever  depicted  in  his  most  dread 
ful  scare-climax.  There  is  no  will  when  Nature  turns 
loose  her  dogs  of  fear  upon  a  sick  and  shattered  spirit — 
no  more  will  than  in  the  crisis  of  pneumonia  or  typhoid. 

He  wrapped  the  bed-clothes  about  him  and  stag 
gered  to  the  medicine-case.  There  was  no  pure  alcohol ; 
no  wood-alcohol  luckily.  However,  a  quart  bottle  of  liver- 
tonic — turkey  rhubarb,  gum  guaiac,  and  aloes,  steeped 
in  Holland  gin.  A  teaspoonful  before  meals  is  the 
dose — for  the  spring  of  the  year.  An  old  family  remedy, 
this, — one  of  the  bitterest  and  most  potent  concoctions 
ever  shaken  in  a  bottle,  a  gold-brown  devil  that  gagged 
full-length.  The  inconceivable  organic  need  for  alcohol 
worked  strangely,  since  Charter's  stomach  retained  a 
half-tumbler  of  this  horrible  dosage.  Possibly,  it  could 
not  have  held  straight  whiskey  at  once.  Internally 
cleansed,  he,  of  course,  responded  immediately  to  the 
warmth.  Plans  for  whiskey  instantly  awoke  in  his 
brain.  He  touched  the  button  which  connected  with  his 
man  in  the  stable;  then  waited  by  a  rear  window  until 
the  other  appeared. 

"  Bob,"  he  called  down  shakily,  "  have  you  got  any 
whiskey?  " 

"  The  half  of  a  half-pint,  sir." 

"  Bring  it  up  quickly.  Here — watch  close — I'm  toss 
ing  down  my  latch-key." 

The  key  left  his  hand  badly.  He  could  have  em 
braced  Bob  for  finding  it  in  the  dark  as  he  did.  Charter 
then  sat  down — still  with  the  bed-clothes  wrapped  about 
him — to  wait  for  the  other's  step.  He  felt  close  to 


172  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

death  in  the  silence.  .  .  .  Bob  poured  and  held  the  single 
drink  to  his  lips.  Charter  sat  still,  swallowing  for  a 
moment.  Part  remained  within  him. 

"  Now,  Bob,"  he  said,  "  run  across  the  street  to 
Dr.  Whipple,  and  tell  him  I  need  some  whiskey.  Tell 
him  he  needn't  come  over — unless  he  wants  to.  I'm  ill, 
and  I've  got  to  get  out  of  here.  Hurry  back." 

He  dared  not  return  to  bed  now — fear  of  dreams. 
To  draw  on  parts  of  his  clothing  was  an  heroic  achieve 
ment,  but  he  could  not  bend  forward  to  put  on  stockings 
or  shoes  without  overturning  his  stomach,  the  lining 
of  which  was  sore  as  a  festering  wound.  His  nostrils, 
with  their  continual  suggestions,  now  tortured  him  with 
a  certain  half-cooked  odor  of  his  own  inner  tissues. 
The  consciousness  of  having  lost  his  will — that  he  was 
thirty  years  old,  and  shortly  to  be  drunk  again — be 
came  the  nucleus  for  every  flying  storm-cloud  in  his 
brain.  He  knew  what  it  would  be  now.  He  would 
drink  regularly,  fatten,  redden,  and  betray  every  rem 
nant  of  good  left  within  him — more  and  more  distended 
and  brutalized — until  his  heart  stopped  or  his  liver 
hardened.  And  the  great  work?  He  tried  to  smile  at 
this.  Those  who  had  looked  for  big  things  from  his 
maturity  had  chosen  a  musty  vessel.  He  would  write 
of  the  loves  of  the  flesh,  and  of  physical  instincts — 
one  of  the  common — with  a  spark  of  the  old  genius 
now  and  then  to  light  up  the  havoc — that  he  might 
writhe!  Yes,  he  would  never  get  past  that — the  in 
stantaneous  flash  of  his  real  self  to  lift  him  where  he 
belonged — so  he  would  not  forget  to  suffer — when  he 
fell  back.  ..."  I'll  break  that  little  system,"  he  mut 
tered  angrily,  as  to  an  enemy  in  the  room,  "  I'll  drink 


The  Strong  Man  Bound  173 

my  nerve  back  and  shoot  my  head  off."  .  .  .  But  bigger, 
infinitely  more  important,  than  any  of  these  thoughts, 
was  the  straining  of  every  sense  for  Bob's  step  in  the 
hall — Bob  with  the  whiskey  from  his  never-failing 
friend,  Dr.  Whipple.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  had  chosen  whiskey 
to  drive  out  the  God-stuff  from  his  soul.  What  a  dull, 
cheap  beast  he  was ! 

The  day  was  breaking — a  sweet  summer  morning. 
He  wrapped  the  bed-clothes  closer  about  him,  and  lifted 
the  window  higher.  The  nostrils  that  had  brought  him 
so  much  of  squalor  and  horror  now  expanded  to  the 
new  life  of  the  day — vitality  that  stirred  flowers  and 
foliage,  grasses  and  skies  to  beauty;  the  blessed  morn 
ing  winds,  lit  with  faint  glory.  The  East  was  a  great, 
gray  butterfly's  wing,  shot  with  quivering  lines  of  mauve 
and  gold.  It  shamed  the  hulk  huddled  at  the  window. 
Bob's  foot  on  the  stairs  was  the  price  of  his  brutality. 

"  Great  mornin'  for  a  ride.  Beth  is  fit  as  a  circus. 
I'd  better  get  her  ready,  hadn't  I,  sir?" 

"God,  no!"  Charter  mumbled.  "Help  me  on  with 
my  boots,  and  pour  out  a  drink.  Bring  fresh  water.  .  .  . 
Did  Doctor " 

"  Didn't  question  me,  sir.  Brought  what  you  wanted, 
and  said  he'd  drop  over  to  see  you  to-day." 

Charter  held  his  mouth  for  the  proffered  stimulant, 
and  beckoned  the  other  back. 

"  Let  me  sit  still  for  a  minute  or  two.  Don't  joggle 
about  the  room,  Bob." 

Revulsion  quieted,  the  nausea  passed.  Bob  finished 
dressing  him,  and  Charter  moved  abroad.  He  took  the 
flask  with  him,  lest  it  be  some  forgotten  holiday  and 
the  bars  closed.  A  man  who  has  had  such  a  night  as 


174  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

his  is  slavish  for  days  before  the  fear  of  being 
without.  He  was  pitifully  weak,  but  the  stimulus  had 
lifted  his  mind  out  of  the  hells  of  obsession. 

The  morning  wind  had  sweetened  the  streets.  Lawns, 
hedges,  vines,  and  all  the  greens  seemed  washed  and 
preened  to  meet  the  sun.  To  one  who  has  hived 
with  demons,  there  is  something  so  simple  and  sanative 
about  the  restoring  night — the  rest  of  healing  and  health. 
He  could  have  wept  at  the  virtue  of  simple  goodness — 
so  easy,  so  vainly  sought  amid  the  complications  of 
vanity  and  desire.  Well  and  clearly  he  saw  now  that 
mild  good,  undemonstrative,  unaggressive  good — 
seventy  years  of  bovine  plodding,  sunning,  grazing, 
drowsing — is  a  step  toward  the  Top.  What  a  travesty 
is  genius  when  it  is  arraigned  by  an  august  morning; 
men  who  summon  gods  to  their  thinking,  yet  fail  in 
the  simple  lessons  that  dogs  and  horses  and  cats  have 
grasped !  All  the  more  foul  and  bestial  are  those  whom 
gods  have  touched  within ;  charged  with  treason  of  man 
hood  by  every  good  and  perfect  thing,  when  they  cannot 
rise  and  meet  the  day  with  clean  hearts.  Charter  would 
have  given  all  his  evolution  for  the  simple  decency  of 
his  man,  Bob,  or  his  mare,  Beth. 

The  crowd  of  thoughts  incensed  him,  so  he  hurried. 
.  .  .  Dengler  was  sweeping  out  his  bar.  Screen-doors 
slammed  open,  and  a  volume  of  dust  met  the  early 
caller  as  he  was  about  to  enter.  Dengler  didn't  drink, 
and  he  was  properly  pleased  with  the  morning.  Lafe 
Schiel,  who  was  scrubbing  cuspidors  for  Dengler,  drank. 
That's  why  he  cleaned  cuspidors.  Dengler  greeted  his 
honored  patron  effusively. 

"  Suppose    you've    been    working    all    night,    Mr. 


The  Strong  Man  Bound  175 

Charter.  You  look  a  little  roughed  and  tired.  You 
work  while  we  sleep — eh?  That's  the  way  with  you 
writer-fellows.  I've  got  a  niece  that  writes.  I  told 
you  about  her.  She's  ruined  her  eyes.  She  says  she 
can  get  her  best  thoughts  at  night.  You're  all  alike." 

"  Have  a  little  touch,  Lafe  ? "  Charter  asked,  turn 
ing  to  the  porter,  who  wiped  his  hands  on  his  trousers 
and  stepped  forward  gratefully. 

Bottles  were  piled  on  the  bar,  still  beer-stained 
from  the  night  before.  Dengler  put  forward  clean, 
dripping  glasses  from  below,  and  stroked  the  bottle 
with  his  palm,  giving  Lafe  water,  and  inquiring  of 
Charter  what  he  would  have  "  for  a  wash."  .  .  .  Dengler, 
so  big-necked,  healthy,  and  busy,  talking  about  his  break 
fast  and  not  corrupting  his  body  with  the  stuff  others 
paid  for;  Lafe  Schiel  in  his  last  years — nothing  but 
whiskey  left — no  thought,  no  compunction,  no  man,  no 
soul,  just  a  galvanic  desire — these  three  in  a  tawdry 
little  uptown  bar  at  five  in  the  morning — and  he,  Quen- 
tin  Charter,  with  a  splendid  mare  to  ride,  a  mother  to 
breakfast  with,  a  world's  work  to  do;  he,  Quentin 
Charter,  in  this  diseased  growth  upon  the  world's  gut 
ter,  in  this  accumulation  of  cells  which  taints  all  society. 

Charter  drank  and  glanced  at  the  morning  paper. 
The  sheet  still  damp  from  the  press  reminded  him  of 
the  night's  toil  in  the  office  down-town  (a  veritable 
strife  of  work,  while  he  had  grovelled) — copy-makers, 
copy-readers,  compositors,  form-makers,  and  pressmen — 
he  knew  many  of  them — all  fine  fellows,  decently  resting 
now,  deservedly  resting.  And  the  healthy  little  boys, 
cutting  their  sleep  short,  to  deliver  from  door  to  door, 
even  to  Dengler's,  this  worthy  product  for  the  helpful 


176  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

dollar!  Ah,  God,  the  world  was  so  sweet  and  pure  in 
its  worthier  activities  !  God  only  asked  that — not  genius, 
just  slow-leisured  decency  would  pass  with  a  blessing. 
God  had  eternity  to  build  men,  and  genius  which  looked 
out  upon  a  morning  like  this,  from  a  warm  tube  of 
disease,  was  concentrated  waste!  Charter  cleared  his 
throat.  Thoughts  were  pressing  down  upon  him  too 
swiftly  again.  He  ordered  another  drink,  and  Dengler 
winked  protestingly  as  he  turned  to  call  Lafe  Schiel. 
The  look  said,  "  Don't  buy  him  another,  or  I  won't  get 
my  cuspidors  cleaned." 

So  Charter  felt  that  he  was  out  of  range  and  align 
ment  everywhere,  and  the  drink  betrayed  him,  as  it 
always  does  when  in  power.  Not  even  in  Lafe  Scheil 
was  the  devil  surer  of  his  power  this  day.  The  whiskey 
did  not  brighten,  but  stimulated  thought-terrors  upon 
the  subject  of  his  own  shattering.  .  .  .  Dengler  found  him 
interesting — this  man  so  strangely  honored  by  others; 
by  certain  others  honored  above  politicians.  He  won 
dered  now  why  the  other  so  recklessly  plied  the  whip. 
.  .  .  The  change  that  came  was  inevitable. 

"  There  now,  old  fellow,"  Dengler  remonstrated 
familiarly,  "  I  don't  like  to  turn  you  down,  but  you 
can't — honest,  you  can't — stand  much  more." 

This  was  at  seven-thirty.  Charter  straightened  up, 
laughed,  and  started  to  say,  "  This  is  the  first " 

But  he  reflected  that  once  before  this  same  thing 
had  happened  somewhere:  he  had  been  deemed  too 
drunk  to  drink — somewhere  before.  .  .  .  He  wabbled  in 
the  memory,  and  mumbled  something  wide  to  the  point 
of  what  he  had  meant  to  say,  and  jerked  out  .  .  . 
That  buttoning  of  his  coat  about  his  throat  (on  a 


The  Strong  Man  Bound  177 

brilliant  summer  morning)  ;  that  walking  out  swiftly 
with  set  jaw  and  unseeing  eyes,  was  but  one  of  many 
landmarks  to  Dengler — landmarks  on  the  down-grade. 
He  had  seen  them  all  in  his  twenty  years ;  seen  the 
whole  neighborhood  change;  seen  clean  boys  redden, 
fatten,  and  thrive  for  a  time ;  watched  the  abyss  widen 
between  young  married  pairs,  his  own  liquors  running 
in  the  bottom;  seen  men  leave  their  best  with  him 
and  take  home  their  beast.  .  .  .  Dengler,  yes,  had  seen 
many  things  worth  telling  and  remembering.  They  all 
owed  him  at  the  last.  ...  In  some  ways,  this  man,  Charter, 
was  different.  He  tried  to  remember  who  it  was  who 
first  brought  Charter  in,  and  who  that  party  of  swell 
chaps  were  who,  finding  Charter  there  one  day,  had 
made  a  sort  of  hero  out  of  him  and  tarried  for  hours. 
.  .  .  The  beer-man,  in  his  leather  apron,  entered  to 
spoil  this  musing.  He  put  up  the  old  square-face  bottle, 
and  served  for  a  "  chaser "  a  tall  shell  of  beer.  .  .  . 
Even  beer-men  could  not  last.  Dengler  had  seen  many 
who  for  a  year  or  two  "  chased "  gin  with  beer  at 
every  call.  There  was  Schultz,  a  year  ago  about 
this  time.  He'd  been  driving  a  wagon  for  a  couple 
of  years.  Schultz  had  made  too  many  stops  before 
he  reached  Dengler's  that  day.  A  full  half-barrel  had 
crushed  him  to  the  pavement  just  outside  the  door. 

"  Put  two  halves   in  the  basement,   and   leave  me 
a  dozen  cases  of  pints,"  Dengler  ordered. 

Charter  was  met  at  the  door  by  his  mother.     She 

had  expected  to  find  him  suffering  from  nerves,  but 

clean.     He  had   always   kept  his   word,   and   she   had 

waited  for  this  day.     She  did  not  need  to  look  at  him 

12 


178  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

twice,  but  put  on  her  bonnet  and  left  the  house.  She 
returned  within  an  hour  with  three  of  Charter's  men 
friends.  Bob,  whom  she  had  left  to  take  care  of  her 
son,  reported  that  he  had  a  terrible  time.  Charter,  un 
able  to  find  his  six-shooter,  had  overturned  the  house 
and  talked  of  conspiracy  and  robbery.  He  had  fallen 
asleep  within  the  last  few  minutes.  Strange  that  the 
mother  had  thought  to  hide  the  six-shooter.  .  .  . 

The  men  lifted  him  to  a  closed  carriage.  Charter 
was  driven  to  a  sanatorium.  One  of  the  friends  under 
took  to  stay  with  him  for  a  day  or  two.  Charter  did 
not  rightly  realize  where  he  was  until  evening.  He 
appeared  to  take  the  news  very  quietly.  Whiskey  was 
allowed  him  when  it  was  needed.  Other  patients  in 
various  states  of  convalescence  offered  assistance  in 
many  ways.  That  night,  when  the  friend  finally  fell 
asleep  in  the  chair  at  the  bedside,  Charter  arose  softly, 
went  into  a  hall,  where  a  light  was  burning,  and  plunged 
down  into  the  dark — twenty-two  brass-covered  steps. 
His  head  broke  the  panel  of  the  front  door  at  the  foot. 
His  idea  was  the  same  which  had  made  him  hunt  for 
his  six-shooter  the  morning  before.  Besides  the  door, 
he  broke  his  nose,  his  arm,  and  covered  himself  with 
bruises,  but  fell  short,  years  yet  unnumbered,  from  his 
intent.  Under  the  care  of  experts  after  that,  he  was 
watched  constantly,  and  given  stimulus  at  gradually 
lengthening  intervals — until  he  refused  it  himself  on 
the  seventh  day.  Three  weeks  later,  still,  he  left  the 
place,  a  man  again,  with  one  hundred  and  twenty 
needle  punctures  in  the  flesh  of  his  unbroken  arm. 


FOURTEENTH  CHAPTER 

THE  SINGING  OF  THE  SKYLARK  CEASES  ABRUPTLY; 

CHARTER   HASTENS  EAST  TO  FIND  A  QUEER 

MESSAGE  AT    THE   GRANVILLE 

CHARTER,  three  years  after  the  foregoing  descent 
into  realism',  was  confessedly  as  happy  a  man  as  the 
Mid- West  held.  He  accepted  his  serenity  with  a  full 
knowledge  of  its  excellence,  and  according  to  his  present 
health  and  habits  would  not  have  been  excited  to  find 
himself  still  among  those  present,  had  the  curtain  been 
lifted  thirty  or  forty  years  away.  In  the  year  that 
followed  the  sanatorium  experience,  Charter  in  reality 
found  himself.  There  were  a  few  months  in  which  work 
came  slowly  and  was  uncertain  in  quality.  In  his  entire 
conception,  nothing  worse  could  happen  than  an  abate 
ment  of  mental  activity,  but  he  did  not  writhe,  know 
ing  that  he  richly  deserved  the  perfect  punishment. 
So  slowly  and  deeply  did  physical  care  and  spiritual 
awakening  restore  the  forces  of  mind,  however,  that 
he  did  not  realize  an  expansion  of  power  until  his 
first  long  work  had  received  critical  and  popular  ac 
claim,  and  he  could  see  it,  himself,  in  perspective.  So 
he  put  off  the  last  and  toughest  shackle  of  King  Fear 
— the  living  death. 

As  for  drinking,  that  had  beaten  him.  He  had  no 
thought  to  re-challenge  the  champion.  In  learning  that 
he  could  become  abject,  a  creature  of  paralyzed  will, 
he  had  no  further  curiosity.  This  much,  however,  he 

179 


180  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

had  required  to  be  shown,  and  what  a  tender  heart  he 
had  ever  afterward  for  the  Lafe  Schiels  of  this  world. 
There  were  other  vivid  animals,  strong  and  agile,  in  his 
quiver  of  physical  passions,  but  he  discovered  that  these 
could  not  become  red  and  rending  without  alcohol. 
Such  were  clubbed  into  submission  accordingly.  With 
alcohol,  Charter  could  travel  any  one  of  seven  sorry 
routes  to  the  gutter;  without  it,  none.  This  was  his 
constant  source  of  thankfulness — that  he  had  refined  his 
elements  without  abating  their  dynamics.  The  forces 
that  might  have  proved  so  deadly  in  mastery,  furnished 
a  fine  vitality  under  the  lash. 

All  was  sanative  and  open  about  him.  Charter 
knew  the  ultimate  dozen  of  the  hundred  and  forty- 
four  thousand  rules  for  health — and  made  these  his 
habit.  The  garret,  so  often  spoken  of,  was  the  third- 
floor  of  his  mother's  mansion.  Since  he  slept  under 
the  sky,  his  sleeping-room  was  also  a  solarium.  There 
was  a  long,  thickly-carpeted  hall  where  he  paced  and 
smoked  meditatively;  a  trophy-room  and  his  study  and 
library.  Through  books  and  lands,  he  had  travelled 
as  few  men  of  his  years,  and  always  with  an  exploring 
mind.  In  far  countries,  his  was  an  eye  of  quick  famili 
arity;  always  he  had  been  intensely  a  part  of  his 
present  environ,  whether  Typee  or  Tibet.  Then,  the 
God-taught  philosophers  of  Asia  and  Europe,  and  our 
own  rousing  young  continent,  were  the  well-beloved  of 
his  brain,  so  that  he  saw  many  things  with  eyes  lit 
by  their  prophecies.  As  for  money,  he  was  wealthy, 
as  Channing  commends,  rather  than  rich,  and  for  this 
competence  of  late,  he  had  made  not  a  single  concession, 
or  subverted  the  least  of  his  ideals,  selling  only  the 


Charter  Hastens  East  181 

best  of  his  thoughts,  the  expression  of  which  polished 
the  product  and  increased  the  capacity.  He  fitted  noth 
ing  to  the  fancied  needs  of  marketing.  His  mother 
began  truly  to  live  now,  and  her  external  nature  mani 
fested  below  in  fine  grains  and  finished  services.  Be 
tween  the  two,  the  old  Charter  formalities  were  ob 
served.  She  was  royal  steel — this  white-haired  mother 
— and  a  cottage  would  have  become  baronial  about  her. 
Where  she  was,  there  lived  order  and  silence  and 
poise. 

After  this  enumeration  of  felicitous  details,  one  will 
conclude  that  this  has  to  deal  with  a  selfish  man;  yet 
his  gruelling  punishments  must  not  be  forgotten,  nor 
the  Quentin  spirit.  It  is  true  that  he  had  emerged 
miraculously  unhurt  from  many  dark  explorations ;  but 
his  appreciation  of  the  innate  treachery  and  perversion 
of  events  was  sound  and  keen.  By  no  means  did  he 
challenge  any  complication  which  might  strip  him  to 
quivering  nakedness  again.  Rather  his  whole  life 
breathed  gratitude  for  the  goodly  days  as '  they  came, 
and  glided  into  untormented  nights.  Next  in  importance 
to  the  discovery  that  his  will  could  be  beaten  was  this 
which  the  drinking  temperament  so  hesitatingly  grants 
— that  there  are  thrilling  hearts,  brilliant  minds,  memor 
able  conversations,  and  lovely  impulses  among  men  and 
women  who  will  not  tarry  long  over  the  wine.  Simple 
as  this  seems,  it  was  hard  for  a  Charter  to  learn.  .  .  . 
As  he  contemplated  the  full  promise  of  his  maturity,  the 
thought  often  came — indeed,  he  expressed  it  in  one 
of  the  Skylark  letters — that  this  was  but  a  period  of 
rest  and  healing  in  which  he  was  storing  power  for 
sterner  and  more  subtle  trials. 


182  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

Such  is  an  intimation  of  the  mental  and  moral  state 
of  Quentin  Charter  in  his  thirty-fourth  year,  when  he 
began  to  open  the  Skylark  letters  with  more  than  curi 
osity.  .  .  .  He  knew  Reifferscheid,  and  admired  him 
with  the  familiar  enthusiasm  of  one  who  has  read  the 
editor's  work  intermittently  for  years.  Charter,  of 
course,  was  delighted  with  the  review  of  his  second  book. 
It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  it  could  have  been  written  by 
other  than  the  editor  himself.  Reifferscheid's  reply  to 
Charter's  letter  of  thanks  for  the  critique  proved  the  key 
to  the  whole  matter,  since  it  gave  the  Westerner  both 
focus  and  dimension  for  his  visioning. 

I  haven't  read  your  book  yet,  old  friend,  but  I'm  going  to 
shortly.  Your  fine  letter  has  been  turned  over  to  Miss  Paula 
Linster,  a  young  woman  who  has  been  doing  some  reviews  for 
me,  of  late;  some  of  the  most  important,  in  which  lot  your 
book,  of  course,  felL  The  review  which  pleased  you  is  only 
one  of  a  hundred  that  has  pleased  me.  Miss  Linster  is  the  last 
word — for  fineness  of  mind.  Incidentally,  she  is  an  illumination 
to  look  at,  and  I  haven't  the  slightest  doubt  but  that  she  sings 
and  paints  and  plays  quite  as  well  as  she  writes  book  notices.  If 
she  liked  a  work  of  mine  as  well  as  she  likes  yours,  I  should 
start  on  a  year's  tramp,  careless  of  returns  from  States  yet 
to  be  heard  from.  The  point  that  interests  me  is  that  you  could 
do  a  great  book  about  women,  away  off  there  in  the  Provinces — 
and  without  knowing  her. 

You  may  wonder  at  this  ebullition.  Truth  is,  I'm  backing 
down,  firmly,  forcefully,  an  inclination  to  do  an  essay  on  the 
subject.  This  is  the  first  chance  I  ever  had  to  express  matters 
which  have  come  forth  from  the  Miraculous  in  the  past  year. 
All  that  she  does  has  the  ultimate  feminine  touch, — but  I'll  stop 
before  I  get  my  sleeves  up  again  about  this  new  order  of  being. 
Perhaps  you  deserve  to  know  Miss  Linster.  You'd  never  be 
the  same  afterwards,  so  I'm  not  so  sure  whether  I'd  better 
negotiate  it  or  not.  I'm  glad  to  see  your  book  has  left  the 
post  so  perfectly.  Always  come  to  see  me  when  in  town. 
Yours  solid,  Reifferscheid. 


Charter  Hastens  East  183 

And  so  she  became  the  Skylark  to  Quentin  Charter, 
because  she  was  lost  in  the  heights  over  by  the  sea 
board,  and  only  her  singing  came  out  of  the  blue.  .  .  . 
There  were  fine  feminine  flashes  in  the  letters  Charter 
received,  rare  exquisite  matters  which  can  be  given  to 
the  world,  only  through  the  one  who  inspires  their  warm 
delicacy  and  charm.  The  circuit  was  complete,  and 
the  voltage  grew  mightier  and  mightier. 

There  was  a  royal  fall  night,  in  which  Charter's 
work  came  ill,  because  thoughts  of  her  monopolized. 
Life  seemed  warm  and  splendid  within  him.  He  turned 
off  the  electric  bulb  above  his  head,  and  the  moonlight 
burst  in — a  hunting  moon,  full  and  red  as  Mars.  There 
was  thrilling  glory  in  the  purple  south,  and  a  sense  of 
the  ineffable  majesty  of  stellar  management.  He  ban 
ished  the  night  panorama  with  the  electric  button  again, 
and  wrote  to  the  Skylark.  This  particular  letter  proved 
the  kind  which  annihilates  all  sense  of  separateness, 
save  the  animal  heaviness  of  miles,  and  makes  this 
last,  extra  carking  and  pitiless  for  the  time.  It  may 
have  been  that  Charter  would  have  hesitated  to  send 
this  letter,  had  he  read  it  over  again  in  the  cool  of 
morning,  but  it  happened  that  he  yearned  for  a  walk 
that  night — and  passed  a  mail-box,  while  the  witchery 
of  the  night  still  enchanted. 

He  felt  dry,  a  bit  burned  the  next  morning,  and 
saddled  for  a  couple  of  hours,  transferring  the  slight 
strain  of  nerves  to  his  muscles.  There  was  a  note  from 
the  Skylark.  She  had  found  an  old  picture  of  his  in 
a  magazine  and  commented  on  it  deliciously.  ..."  I 
wonder  if  you  think  of  me  as  I  am — plain,  plain  f"  she 
had  asked.  .  .  .  No,  he  did  not.  Nor  was  it  Reiffer- 


184  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

scheid's  words  to  the  contrary  that  prevented  him.  It  is 
not  in  man  to  correlate  plainness  with  a  mystic  attraction. 
She  had  never  appeared  to  him  as  beautiful  exactly, 
but  fine,  vivid,  electric — a  manifestation  of  eyes,  lips, 
mind.  All  the  poundage  part  of  a  human  being  was 
utterly  vague  in  his  concept  of  the  Skylark.  .  .  .  Charter 
naturally  lost  his  perspective  and  penetration  in  dealing 
with  his  own  interlacing  emotions. 

The  present  letter  thralled  him.  It  was  blithe  in 
intent,  but  intuitively  deep  and  keen.  In  a  former 
letter,  he  had  asked  if  there  were  not  a  strain  of  Irish 
in  her  lineage,  so  mercurial  did  her  temperament  play 
in  all  that  she  wrote.  "  No  Irish,"  she  had  answered. 
"  Dutch — straight  Dutch.  Always  New  York — always 
Dutch.  I  praise  Providence  for  this  '  monkey-wrench  to 
hang  upon  my  safety  valve.' " 

The  "  red  moon  "  letter  seemed  to  have  caught  her 
on  the  wing — at  her  highest  and  happiest — for  she 
answered  it  in  fine  faith  and  lightness.  Though  it  had 
carried  her  up  and  up;  and  though  the  singing  came 
back  from  golden  azure,  yet  she  had  not  forgotten 
her  humor.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  world-wisdom 
here,  or  was  it  world-wear? 

For  hours  at  a  time,  Charter  was  now  stripped  of 
his  capacity  for  work.  This  is  fine  torment.  Mostly 
there  was  a  sheet  in  his  type-mill,  but  his  fingers  only 
fluttered  the  space-bar.  Let  him  begin  a  letter  to  the 
Skylark,  however,  and  inspiration  came,  indeed.  His 
thoughts  marshalled  like  a  perfect  army  then,  and  passed 
out  from  under  his  hand  in  flashing  review.  .  .  .  He 
ate  little,  slept  little,  but  his  vitality  was  prodigious. 
A  miracle  matured  in  his  breast.  Had  he  not  been  more 


Charter  Hastens  East  185 

than  usually  stubborn,  he  would  have  granted  long  be 
fore,  that  he  loved  a  woman  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life — and  this  a  woman  he  had  never  seen. 

By  New  Year's  there  was  no  dissembling.  No  day 
passed  now  in  which  he  did  not  battle  down  an  im 
pulse  to  take  a  train  for  New  York.  This  was  real 
living.  The  destiny  which  had  ruled  him  through  so 
many  dark  wanderings,  had  waited  until  his  soul  was 
roused  to  dominance,  before  he  was  permitted  to  enter 
earth's  true  treasury.  It  was  now  that  he  remembered 
his  past,  and  many  a  mile  and  many  an  hour  he  paced 
the  dim  hall — wrestling  to  be  clean  of  it.  This  was  a 
Soul  which  called.  He  did  not  dare  to  answer  while 
a  vestige  of  the  old  taints  lingered.  .  .  .  He  was  seldom 
troubled  that  she  might  prove  less  inspiring  than  he 
pictured.  He  staked  every  reliance  in  that  he  had  lived 
thirty-three  years  and  encountered  nothing  comparable 
with  this  before.  Passions,  fascinations,  infatuations, 
were  long  put  behind;  these  were  classed  now  in  his 
mind  beneath  decent  and  frictionless  partnerships  be 
tween  men  and  women. 

The  .vision  which  inspired  his  romantic  loneliness 
was  all  that  Reifferscheid  had  suggested,  and  infinitely 
more  which  his  own  dreamings  had  supplied.  She 
was  an  adult  frankly  challenged  by  the  mysteries  of 
creation;  often  shocked  by  its  revelations,  never  above 
pity  nor  beneath  humor,  wonderful  in  her  reality  of 
culture,  and  wise  above  men  with  a  woman's  divination. 
But  particularly,  her  ultimate  meaning  was  for  him; 
his  quest,  she  was;  his  crown,  to  be.  The  world  had 
preserved  her  singing,  until  he  was  ready;  and  though 
singing,  she  must  ever  feel  the  poverty  of  unfulfilment 


186  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

in  her  own  breast,  until  he  came.  This  was  the  stately 
form  of  the  whole  enchantment. 

That  there  existed  in  creation  a  completing  feminine 
for  all  his  lonely  and  divided  forces;  that  there  lived 
one  woman  who  could  evenly  ignite  his  body,  brain, 
and  spirit;  that  there  was  hidden  in  the  splendid  plan 
of  things,  a  Union  of  Two  to  form  One ;  all  this  which 
had  been  drifting  star-stuff  before,  became  sparks  now 
for  new  and  terrific  energies  of  mind;  energies,  how 
ever,  which  could  be  trained  and  directed  only  in  her 
presence. 

Man  cannot  live  altogether  in  the  altitudes.  There 
were  brief  periods  wherein  Charter  remembered  the 
mad,  drink-tainted  trifler  with  lyrics  and  women.  It 
had  been  a  past,  surely,  filled  with  soul-murdering  illu 
sions.  Those  who  had  known  him  then,  would  have 
had  to  see  him  now  to  find  faith.  There  had  been  letters 
about  his  recent  books  from  men  and  women  who  had 
known  him  in  the  darker,  less-spacious  days.  Failing 
to  adjust  this  new  and  lusty  spirit  with  the  man  they 
had  known,  they  had  tried  to  bring  a  laugh  from  him 
and  answers  to  futile  questions. 

Charter  could  not  forget  that  there  come  to  the 
desk  of  a  review-editor  many  personal  notices  con 
cerning  one  whose  work  is  being  talked  about.  Indeed, 
such  are  handled  as  a  matter  of  routine.  The  Skylark 
could  not  be  expected  always  to  wing  aloof  from  these. 
All  that  was  vague  and  indefinite  did  not  matter;  such 
might  even  be  accounted  as  admirable  specializations  in 
life,  but  his  acquaintance  had  been  prodigious,  and  many 
clippings  came  home  to  him  which  he  was  not  pleased 
to  read.  .  .  .  Still,  in  the  main,  he  relied  upon  Paula's 


Charter  Hastens  East  187 

solid  sense  of  justice;  and  every  fresh  letter  lifted  him 
higher  and  higher.  In  his  own  letters,  he  did  not  fail 
to  incorporate  a  buffer  against  indefinite  revelations. 
Moreover,  he  had  never  ceased  to  call  it  wonderful — 
this  capacity,  of  even  the  purest  women,  to  lock  the 
doors  against  the  ugliest  generalities  of  a  man's  past, 
and  to  reckon  only  with  specific  instances.  It  is  here 
that  the  mother  looks  out  through  the  eyes  of  a  maid. 

One  April  morning,  he  encountered  a  depression  more 
formidable  in  vitality  than  ever  before.  Beth  had  just 
had  her  shoes  set,  and  Charter  tried  to  ride  off  the 
blue  devil.  He  steadied  his  mount  out  of  town,  until 
she  struck  the  ringing  country  road.  The  instant  she 
felt  her  calks  bite  into  the  frosty  turf,  the  mare  flirted 
her  head,  took  the  bit,  and  became  a  veritable  glowing 
battery  of  beautiful  energy.  Twelve  miles  he  gave  her, 
but  the  blue  devil  rode  equally  well  and  sat  down 
again  with  Charter  in  his  study.  It  was  like  a  desert- 
island  loneliness,  this  which  beset  him,  as  if  his  ship 
were  sinking  into  the  horizon;  only  it  was  a  more 
poignant  than  physical  agony — a  sense  of  spiritual  isola 
tion. 

This  study  had  become  to  him  the  place  of  his 
dearest  revelations  of  life.  Here,  of  late  especially,  he 
had  found  refuge  from  every  discord,  and  here  invariably 
were  opened  the  letters  from  the  Skylark.  The  place 
of  a  man's  work  becomes  a  grand,  quiet  solace  as  he 
grows  older,  but  calm  and  poise  were  wrested  from 
the  room  to-day.  He  fought  the  depression  with  every 
trained  faculty,  but  was  whipped  by  it.  Color  and  sun 
light  were  gone  from  within ;  the  zeal  from  future 
work,  the  warmth  from  every  promise,  the  changing 


188  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

lustre  from  words,  and  the  excellent  energy  of  thought 
which  impels  their  weaving.  Twilight  in  mid-afternoon. 
He  turned  on  the  lights  impatiently.  Meaning  and 
beauty  were  bereft  from  all  his  possessions,  as  buoyancy 
was  gone  from  his  own  breast.  There  was  something 
pitifully  boyish  in  the  trophies  he  had  treasured — 
so  much  of  the  college  cub,  and  the  youth  who  re 
fuses  to  permit  his  travels  to  be  forgotten.  He  regarded 
his  past  work,  as  one  grown  out  of  it,  regretting  that 
it  had  ever  attracted  the  materials  of  permanence.  Smug 
ness  in  his  teachings;  cold  intellectuality  brazen  in  all 
his  attainments;  everything  about  him  suddenly  become 
sinister  from  the  old  life!  ...  He  looked  into  the  East 
— his  country  of  singing,  of  roses,  cedars,  and  foun 
tains — but  the  gray-black  twilight  was  a  damnable  in 
tervention.  ...  It  was  in  this  spirit,  or  lack  of  it,  that 
he  wrote  the  letter  which  revealed  to  Paula  his  inner 
responsiveness,  as  she  was  tossed  in  The  High  Tide. 
The  letter  which  she  had  written  almost  at  the  same 
time,  reached  him  on  the  second  morning  thereafter ; 
and  his  suffering  in  the  interval  he  could  only  liken  to 
one  of  the  old  sieges  of  reaction  after  dissipation.  The 
fine,  angular  writing,  which  he  never  regarded  without 
a  sense  of  the  darting  swiftness  of  her  hand ;  the  thin, 
tough  sheets  that  crinkled,  came  like  bounty  to  the 
starving;  yet  he  was  deathly  afraid. 


Something  of  the  long  ago  has  just  come  to  me — to  my 
very  rooms.  It  would  not  have  been  believed,  had  I  sought  iL 
I  might  have  endured  it,  if  you  had  told  me.  It  is  dreadful 
to  play  with  illusions.  Oh,  why  must  we  keep  our  gods  so 
far  away — lest  we  lose  them?  Had  I  waited  longer,  I  could  not 
have  written.  It  seems  now  that  you  have  a  right  to  know — 


Charter  Hastens  East  189 

before  my  pride  dries  up  all  expression.  You  are  not  to  blame 
— except  that  you  were  very  reckless  in  adding  happinesses 
one  upon  the  other.  It  was  all  quite  ridiculous.  I  trusted  my 
intuition — allowed  myself  to  think  of  a  table  spread  in  the 
wilderness  of  the  world  with  you.  My  intuitions !  I  used  to 
be  so  proud  of  them.  I  see  now  that  sometimes  they're  quite 
as  fallible  as  plain  thinking,  after  all. 

I  always  felt  you  alone.  I  seemed  to  know  your  voice 
after  centuries.  Yes,  I  am  sure  it  was  that  which  affected  me 
so  deeply  in  your  work  and  made  me  answer  your  letters  with 
such  faith.  I  knew  your  -voice.  I  thought  of  you  alone — 
your  spirit  hungry.  ...  It  makes  one  feel  so  common,  when 
one's  intuitions  betray  this  way.  The  heart  for  writing  further 
is  cold  and  heavy.  Once,  down  the  wind,  came  a  fragrant 
pollen.,  but  the  blowing  summer  is  gone  from  my  garden.  .  .  . 

No  signature. 

She  had  not  penned  a  skylark  with  a  folded  or 
broken  wing.  Charter  sat  thinking  for  several  mo 
ments,  but  only  because  he  knew  there  was  ample  time 
to  catch  the  noon-train  for  New  York.  That  he  should 
do  this  had  formed  in  mind  before  he  had  read  five 
lines  of  the  letter.  This  thought  of  action  steadied  him; 
and  the  proof  that  he  had  sensed  her  agony  and  re 
flected  it  throughout  the  past  forty-eight  hours  made 
the  call  of  the  East  instant  and  irresistible.  It  did  not 
come  to  him  at  first  that  he  was  now  entering  the  greater 
conflict,  for  which  Nature  had  trained  him  in  tran 
quillity  and  fed  his  soul  unto  replenishment  during 
three  years.  .  .  .  His  first  quick  thought  came  out  of 
old  habits  of  mind:  An  hour  with  her,  and  her  heart 
will  be  healed!  Here  was  the  old  trifler.  He  suffered 
for  this  instant  faltering  of  the  brighter  manhood.  Man's 
fineness  is  not  accentuated  by  the  fact  that  a  woman 
sacrifices  her  power  within  him,  when  she  falls  to  plead- 


190  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

ing  a  little.  Charter  could  have  torn  out  the  old  mental 
fibres  upon  which  played  the  thought  of  her  swiftly 
renewed  happiness  by  his  presence. 

The  reality  of  her  suffering  slowly  penetrated  his 
mind.  He  perceived  that  she  could  not  express  the 
actuality;  that  her  thoughts  had  winged  ineffectually 
about  the  immovable  disorder — like  bees  over  the  clumsy 
corpse  of  a  rodent  in  the  hive.  It  was  not  to  be  lifted, 
and  the  inspiration  hermetically  to  seal  the  monster  and 
resume  activities  as  well  as  possible,  had  not  yet  come. 
..."  I  might  have  endured  it,  if  you  had  told  me !  " 

He  wasted  no  energy  trying  to  think  exactly  what  had 
happened.  It  was  all  he  could  bear  to  grasp  the  full 
meaning  that  this  inspiring  creature  who  had  soared 
and  sung  so  long,  was  crushed  and  cold.  Every  sen 
tence  in  her  letter  revealed  the  bruise  of  her  heart,  the 
absence  of  spontaneity.  .  .  .  She  was  as  different  from 
other  women  he  had  known — the  women  who  had  been 
healed  by  his  word  or  his  caress — as  he  was  different 
in  this  attraction.  He  telegraphed  that  he  was  coming, 
begged  that  she  would  see  him  the  following  evening, 
and  instructed  her  to  leave  word  for  him  at  the  Gran- 
ville.  Then  he  packed  his  bag  and  told  his  mother. 
She  laughed  quietly. 

"  On  the  spur  of  the  moment  as  usual,  Quentin.  .  .  . 
It  will  be  good  for  you.  You've  been  home  a  long 
time.  Are  you  going — beyond  New  York  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  a  thought  now  of  going  farther,  Mother," 
he  answered.  .  .  . 

Again  twilight  in  mid-afternoon — as  he  crossed  the 
river  from  Jersey.  It  had  been  a  day  and  night  to 
age  the  soul — with  its  inexorable  stretch  of  material 


Charter  Hastens  East  191 

miles.  New  York  had  a  different  look,  a  different 
atmosphere,  than  ever  before.  Huge  and  full  of  hor 
rible  grinding;  sick  with  work  and  sick  with  damp — 
but  above  this,  the  magic  of  her  presence  was  over  all. 
It  was  only  four  in  the  afternoon,  and  he  had  not  asked 
to  see  her  until  seven.  Might  she  not  have  watched 
for  him  or  be  near  him  now?  She  would  know  him 
from  his  pictures,  and  observe  him  as  a  stranger,  but 
he  had  only  his  visions. 

On  the  Cross-town  to  the  Gramnlle,  emotions  played 
upon  him  of  a  kind  that  he  could  not  have  understood 
in  another  man  a  few  months  before..  Moreover,  he 
felt  himself  giving  way  before  the  vibrations  of  the  big 
city.  Harried  and  shrunken,  he  was,  like  a  youth  from 
the  fields ;  and  the  voice  he  had  raised  so  valiantly  from 
afar  against  this  tremendous  massed  soul,  seemed  now 
but  the  clamor  of  a  boy  in  the  safety  of  his  own  door. 
To  and  fro  along  his  inflamed  nerves  crept  the  direct 
need  of  a  drink  and  a  cigarette — old  wolves  forever 
on  the  watch  for  the  spent  and  the  wounded.  .  .  .  Actu 
ally  terrorized,  he  was,  at  the  thought  she  might  not 
see  him;  that  there  might  be  no  note  for  him  at  the 
Granville.  What  a  voyage  in  the  dark. 

For  the  time,  his  excellent  moral  balance  had 
deserted  shamelessly.  An  adequate  perception  of  his 
own  position  and  attitude  in  the  eyes  of  high  woman 
hood  had  unhelmed  him,  quite  properly.  Nature  had 
finally  found  a  hot  retort  which  just  fitted  his  case — 
and  in  he  went.  .  .  .  No  purely  physical  ardor  could 
have  called  Quentin  Charter  out  of  his  study  and  far 
across  the  continent.  Lesser  loves  than  this  have  plunged 
nations  into  war,  and  broken  the  main  trend  of  history 


192  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

into  pregnant  digressions.  The  more  penetratingly  one 
regards  the  man  in  his  present  consuming,  the  more 
formidable  becomes  the  conviction  that  the  human  cos 
mos  in  the  beginning  was  cleft  in  twain:  one  to  grope 
to  the  light,  a  male;  the  other  to  suffer  the  way,  her 
burden,  the  curse  of  Eve.  When  these  mates  of  fire 
fulfil  their  divided  destinies  and  sweep  into  the  zone 
of  mutual  attraction,  woe  to  the  satellites  and  asteroids 
in  the  inevitable  cataclysm  which  follows.  .  .  .  Yet  it  is 
out  of  such  solar  throes  that  gods  and  prophets  are  born. 
.  .  .  He  gave  his  bag  to  a  boy  at  the  Granville  en 
trance,  and  stepped  forward  to  the  desk,  clearing  his 
throat  and  repeating  his  question.  .  .  .  The  clerk  rushed 
through  the  letters  in  "  C." 

"  No,  Mr.  Charter, — not  a  letter,  but  wait  just  a 
moment;  there  was  a  telephone-call." 

A  chill  had  swept  through  him  as  the  man  spoke.  It 
had  not  occurred  to  him  that  the  word  would  come  in 
other  than  her  handwriting.  This  was  an  unsigned  note, 
written  by  the  telephone-girl: 

Mr1.  Quentin  Charter:  A  lady  who  says  you  will  under 
stand,  'phoned  that  she  will  be  home  at  seven  to-night — if  you 
think  it  wise  and  kind  to  come  to  her. 

The  message  was  dated  at  two  P.M.  Both  chill  and 
burning  were  in  the  words.  It  was  strangely  unlike 
her;  yet  in  passing  through  the  operator's  mind,  it 
might  have  become  routine.  The  word  "  kind  "  was  a 
torturing  curb.  It  placed  him  on  ugly  quaking  ground. 
How  weak,  how  ancient  and  commonplace,  is  the  human 
lord  after  all,  when  in  doubt  regarding  his  lady's  re 
ception  of  him!  Where  is  his  valor  now,  his  taking 


Charter  Hastens  East  193 

of  cities,  his  smiling  deaths  for  honor?  Most  of  all 
times,  he  is  man,  the  male;  not  man,  the  soul.  Half 
way  out  on.  the  surface-car,  he  discovered  one  of  the  big 
"  Selma  Cross  "  bill-boards.  It  was  intimate,  startling, 
an  evil  omen — great  black  letters  out  of  the  deathless 
past.  .  .  .  He  stood  on  the  fourth  floor  of  the  Zoroaster. 
The  elevator-man  had  shown  him  a  certain  door  which 
was  slightly  ajar.  He  was  ill,  breathless,  and  his  heart 
sank  strangely  with  the  lights  in  the  shaft  from  the 
descending  car.  .  .  .  He  tapped  on  the  designated  door, 
and  a  deep  melodious  voice,  instantly  identified  with 
ancient  abandonments,  called  gently: 
"Come  in!" 


13 


FIFTEENTH    CHAPTER 

QUENTIN  CHARTER  AND  SELMA  CROSS  JOIN  ISSUE 

ON  A  NEW   BATTLE-GROUND,  EACH  LEAVING 

THE  FIELD  WITH   OPEN  WOUNDS 

CHARTER  was  seized  with  vertigo.  It  was  his  sorry 
thought  that  the  old  scar-tissues,  however  bravely  they 
sufficed  in  the  days  of  easy-going,  could  not  endure  a 
crux  like  this.  But  he  was  wrong.  It  was  the  shock 
to  his  spirit,  which  made  of  Selma  Cross  a  giantess 
of  vague  outlines  in  a  room  filled  with  swimming  ob 
jects.  Need  for  the  woman  of  his  visions  had  cul 
minated  in  the  outer  hall.  In  the  substitution  there  was 
an  inner  wrench,  which  to  one  of  Charter's  intense  con 
centration  was  like  a  stroke;  and  then,  too,  the  horrible 
outburst  of  energy  in  adjusting  the  Skylark  spirit  to 
the  eminent  flesh  of  this  old  plaything  of  his,  left  him 
drained.  He  steadied  himself  into  the  music-room,  and 
sank  into  a  deep  chair,  where  his  heart  pumped  furiously, 
but  light  and  empty,  as  if  it  could  not  grip  the  blood 
locked  in  his  veins. 

He  sat  in  a  sort  of  trance,  glimpses  of  many  thoughts 
running  through  his  brain.  He  deserved  punishment. 
That  was  all  very  well,  but  something  was  wrong  here. 
The  premonition  became  a  reality  in  his  consciousness 
that  he  had  entered  upon  a  great  desert;  that  he  was 
to  endure  again  one  of  his  terrible  thirsts ;  not  a  throat- 
thirst  alone,  but  a  soul-thirst.  In  the  atmosphere  of 
the  woman,  in  the  very  odor  of  the  room,  he  felt  the 
old  impassioned  lyric-maker  crush  back  into  the  dom- 

194 


New  Battle-ground  195 

inance  of  his  mind  with  all  the  impish  exultation  of 
that  lower  self.  Pride  asserted  itself  now.  What  an 
idiot  passage  in  the  career  of  a  rising  writer !  He  should 
always  remember  with  shame  this  coming  to  New  York 
— a  youthful  Marius  in  whose  veins  was  injected  mid 
summer  madness — coming  to  this  city  (where  dollar- 
work  is  king  and  plumaged- woman  queen)  with  an 
abortive  conception  from  garret  dreams.  ...  A  strong 
white  light  fell  upon  the  leather  cover  of  her  reading- 
table,  but  their  faces  were  in  shadow,  like  the  hundred 
actor  faces  in  photograph  upon  the  wall  and  mantel. 
Selma  Cross  was  studying  him  keenly.  The  emptiness 
of  it  all  was  so  pervading — as  his  blood  began  to  move 
again — that  he  laughed  aloud. 

"  Do  you  know,"  Selma  Cross  said  softly,  "  I  thought 
at  first  you  had  been  drinking  too  much.  I  hardly 
knew  you  otherwise,  remember.  Shall  I  tell  you  what 
added  thought  came  to  me,  as  you  crossed  the  floor 
so  unsteadily — looking  so  white  ?  " 

"  Locomotor  ataxia,  I  suppose.  I  hear  it  is  getting 
quite  the  thing  for  middle-generation  New  Yorkers.  .  .  . 
I  expected  to  see  you  a  little  later  in  your  new  play, 
but  not  here — to-night " 

"  That  is  what  I  thought — that  incurable  thing.  You 
seem  floored.  I  didn't  know  a  woman  could  do  that.  In 
the  old  days,  you  were  adaptable — if  nothing  else." 

His  collar  felt  tight,  and  he  stretched  it  out,  need 
ing  more  air  in  his  lungs  and  more  blood  in  his  brain. 
It  was  clear  enough  to  him  now  how  Skylark  had  been 
stricken.  The  real  devastation  was  that  she  belonged 
to  this  sort  of  thing  at  all;  that  she  could  consent  to 
this  trick,  this  trap.  It  was  all  so  different  from  the 


196  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

consummate  fineness,  the  pervading  delicacy,  of  all  Sky 
lark  thoughts.  Having  consented  to  the  trick,  might 
she  not  be  listening?  .  .  .  He  did  not  mind  her  hearing; 
indeed,  he  might  say  things  which  were  needful  for 
her  to  know — but  that  she  should  listen!  He  writhed. 
This  was  not  his  Skylark  at  all.  ...  It  was  hardly 
Charter's  way  now  to  plunge  into  the  centre  of  things. 
There  was  a  feline  elegance  in  the  manner  and  move 
ment  of  Selma  Cross;  she  seemed  so  delightfully  at 
ease,  that  he  was  willing  to  make  it  a  bit  harder  for 
her. 

"  I  suppose  I  was  more  adaptable  formerly,"  he 
said  slowly.  "  It  is  something,  however,  suddenly  to 
encounter  an  old  friend  who  has  made  good  so  fear 
fully  and  tremendously  in  the  past  week.  Of  course, 
I  had  read  all  about  it.  Still,  I  repeat  it  was  an  ex 
perience  to  encounter  your  stardom  actually  on  the 
boards;  and  more  of  an  experience  to  find  you  here. 
I'm  really  very  glad  that  you  secured  the  one  great 
vehicle.  As  for  your  work — few  know  its  quality  better 
than  I." 

She  studied  him  long,  her  eyes  glowing  behind  the 
narrowed  lids.  "As  for  that,  you've  been  biting  the 
flaky  top-crust,  too,"  she  said  finally.  "  I  never  doubted 
what  you  could  do  in  your  game,  but  I  confess  I  feared 
that  whiskey  would  beat  you  to  it.  ...  Do  you  know 
you  are  wonderfully  changed — so  white,  so  lean?  Your 
work  has  come  to  me  since  you  went  away;  what  else 
have  you  been  doing? — I  mean,  to  change  you  so 
finely." 

"  Garret." 

Her  brow  clouded  at  the  word.     It  was  as  if  she 


New  Battle-ground  197i 

had  expected  to  laugh  at  him  long  before  this.  "  Did 
any  woman  ever  tell  you  that  you're  rather  a  mean 
sort,  Quentin  Charter  ?  " 

"  Doubtless  I  have  deserved  it,"  he  answered.  "  What 
are  you  thinking  ?  " 

"  I  was  thinking  of  your  garret — where  you  gather 
your  victims  for  vivisection." 

"  That's  put  very  clearly." 

"Do  you  think  this  is  big-man  stuff?" 

"  My  case  is  rather  an  ugly  one  to  look  back  upon, 
truly,"  Charter  granted.  "  For  a  long  time,  it  appeared 
to  me  that  I  must  learn  things  at  first-hand.  With 
first-water  talents,  perhaps  this  is  not  necessary." 

"A  woman  finally  brings  a  man  face  to  face,"  she 
said  with  sudden  scorn,  "  and  he  becomes  limp,  agrees 
with  everything  she  says.  .  .  .  '  Yes,  it  is  quite  true,  I 
was  an  awful  beast.  What  else,  dear  ?  ' — ugh !  " 

Charter  smiled.  She  was  very  swift  and  deft  in 
supplying  a  man's  evil  motives.  It  is  a  terrible  feminine 
misfortune — this  gift  of  imputing — and  happy  women 
do  not  possess  it.  Few  men,  incidentally,  are  deep 
enough  to  avail  themselves  of  all  the  crafts  and  cunnings 
with  which  they  may  be  accredited. 

"  I  have  no  intention  of  destroying  the  slightest 
gratification  you  may  draw,  Selma,  from  questioning 
me,"  he  said.  "  If  I  appear  limp,  please  remember  that 
I'm  a  bit  in  the  dark  as  yet.  I  came  to  this  floor  on  a 
different  errand.  I  had  this  errand  in  mind — not  self- 
examination.  However,  I'll  attend  now  in  all  sincerity. 
You  were  speaking  of  my  victims  for  vivisection  in  the 
garret." 

She  appeared  not  to  trust  him  in  the  least.     "  I've 


198  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

always  wanted  to  know  if  you  believed — what  an  ap 
prentice  I  really  was  in  love — give-and-take — when  you 
came?  " 

"  That  was  easily  believed,  Selma " 

"  Then  you  grant  I  wasn't  acting — when  I  gave 
myself  to  you  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  think  you  were  acting " 

"Then  you  were  acting,  because  when  the  time 
came — you  dropped  me  quite  as  easily  as  you  would 
drop  a  street-cur  you  had  been  pleased  to  feed." 

"  Just  there  you  are  a  bit  in  error.  I  was  furiously 
interested,  and  certainly  not  acting  altogether,  until " 

"  Enter — the  wine,"  she  said  with  a  sneer. 

"  Yes,  if  you  will."  He  was  irritated  for  a  second, 
having  meant  to  say  something  entirely  different. 

"  A  woman  so  loves  to  hear  that  a  man's  passion  for 
her  depends  upon  his  drinking ! " 

"  I  have  always  been  very  fond  of  and  grateful 
to  you.  It  was  the  whole  life  that  the  drinking  carried 
me  into — that  I  had  such  horror  for  when,  when  I 
became  well." 

"  You  got  well  very  suddenly  after  you  left  me,"  she 
told  him.  Her  huge  face  was  livid,  and  her  lips  dry. 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  was  a  long  time  ill."  Her 
temper  chilled  his  attempts  at  sincerity. 

"  It  looked  so  from  those  first  few — letters,  is  rather 
a  dignified  word." 

"  I  say  it  with  shame,  I  was  practically  unable  to 
write.  I  was  burnt  out  when  I  left  here.  I  had  been 
to  Asia — gone  from  home  seven  months — and  the  re 
turning  fool  permitted  the  bars  to  welcome  him " 

"  You  seized  a  moment  to  dictate  a  letter " 


New  Battle-ground  199 

"  Silence  would  have  been  far  better,"  he  said.  "  I 
see  that  now.  My  only  idea  was  to  let  you  hear. 
Writing  myself  was  out  of  the  question  by  that  time." 

"  You  wrote  an  article  about  stage  people — with  all 
the  loftiness"  of  an  anaemic  priest." 

"  That  was  written  before  I  left  here — written  and 
delivered " 

"All  the  worse,  that  you  could  write  such  an 
article — while  you  were  spending  so  much  time  with 
me." 

"  I  have  never  belittled  what  you  gave  me,  Selma. 
I  could  praise  you,  without  admiring  the  stage.  You 
are  amazingly  different.  I  think  that's  why  New  York  is 
talking  about  you  to-night.  I  had  made  many  trips  to 
New  York  and  knew  many  stage  people,  before  I  met 
you.  If  you  had  belonged  to  the  type  familiar  to  me, 
I  should  have  needed  a  stronger  stimulus  than  drink 
to  force  an  interest.  Had  there  been  others  like  you — 
had  I  even  encountered  '  five  holy  ones  in  the  city ' 
— I  should  not  have  written  that  stage  article,  or  others 
before  it." 

"  You  were  one  with  the  Broadway  Glow-worms, 
Quentin  Charter.  Few  of  them  drank  so  steadily  as 
you." 

"  I  have  already  told  you  that  for  a  long  time  I 
was  an  unutterable  fool.  Until  three  years  ago,  I  did 
not  begin  to  know — the  breath  of  life." 

Selma  Cross  arose  and  paced  the  room,  stretching 
out  her  great  arms  from  time  to  time  as  she  walked. 
"You're  getting  back  your  glibness,"  she  exclaimed, 
"your  quick  little  sentences  which  fit  in  so  nicely!  Ah, 
I  know  them  well,  as  other  women  are  learning  them. 


200  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

But  I  have  things  which  you  cannot  answer  so  easily 
— you  of  the  garret  penances.  .  .  .  You  find  a  starved 
woman  of  thirty — play  with  her  for  a  fortnight,  showing 
her  everything  that  she  can  desire,  and  seeming  to  have 
no  thought,  but  of  her.  I  discover  that  there  was  not 
a  moment  in  which  you  were  so  ardent  that  you  forgot 
to  be  an  analyst.  I  forgive  that,  as  you  might  forgive 
things  in  my  day's  work.  You  put  on  your  gray  garret- 
garb,  and  forget  the  hearts  of  my  people,  to  uncover 
their  weaknesses  before  the  world — you,  so  recently  one 
of  us,  and  none  more  drunk  or  drained  with  the  dawn 
— than  you !  Such  preaching  is  not  good  to  the  nostrils, 
but  I  forgive  that.  You  are  sick,  and  even  the  drink 
won't  warm  you,  so  you  leave  me  at  a  moment's 
notice " 

"  There  was  another  reason." 

"  Hear  me  out,  first,"  she  commanded.  ..."  To  you, 
it  is  just,  '  Adios,  my  dear ' ;  to  me,  it  is  an  uprooting 
—oh,  I  don't  mind  telling  you.  I  was  overturned  in 
that  furrow,  left  naked  for  the  long  burning  day,  but 
I  remembered  my  work — the  work  you  despise!  I, 
who  had  reason  to  know  how  noble  your  pen  can  be, 
forgave  even  those  first  paltry  letters,  filled  with  ex 
cuses  such  as  a  cheap  clerk  might  write.  I  forgave 
the  dictation,  because  it  said  you  were  ill — forgave  the 
silences.  .  .  .  But  when  you  came  to  New  York  six 
months  afterwards,  and  did  not  so  much  as  'phone  or 
send  me  a  card  of  greeting — Selma  called  in  her  silly 
tears." 

"  It  was  vile  ingratitude,"  he  said  earnestly.  "  That's 
where  my  big  fault  lay.  I  wonder  if  you  would  try 
to  understand  the  only  palliation.  You  were  strangely 


New  Battle-ground  201 

generous  and  wonderful  in  your  ways.  I  did  not  cease 
to  think  of  that.  Personally,  you  are  far  above  the 
things  I  came  to  abhor.  No  one  understands  but  the 
victim,  what  alcohol  does  to  a  man  when  it  gets  him 
down.  I  tried  to  kill  myself.  I  became  convalescent 
literally  by  force.  Slowly  approaching  the  normal  again, 
I  was  glad  enough  to  live,  but  the  horrors  never  leave 
the  mind  entirely.  Everything  connected  with  the  old 
life  filled  me  with  shuddering  fear.  I  tel]  you  no  one 
hates  alcohol  like  a  drunkard  fresh  in  his  reform." 

"  But  I  did  not  make  you  drink,"  she  said  im 
patiently.  "  I'm  not  a  drink-loving  woman." 

Charter's  face  flushed.  The  interview  was  becom 
ing  a  farce.  It  had  been  agony  for  him  to  make  this 
confession.  She  would  not  see  that  he  realized  his 
ingratitude;  that  it  was  his  derangement  caused  by  in 
dulging  low  propensities  which  made  him  identify  her 
with  the  days  of  evil. 

"  I  know  that  very  well,  Selma  Cross,"  he  said 
wearily,  "  but  the  stage  is  a  part  of  that  old  life,  that 
sick  night-life  that  runs  eternally  around  the  belt-line." 

She  hated  him  for  reverting  to  this  point.  Holding 
fast  to  what  she  still  had  to  say,  the  actress  picked  up  a 
broken  thread.  "  You  said  there  was  another  reason  why 
you  left  New  York  so  suddenly." 

Charter  expected  now  to  learn  if  any  one  were  listen 
ing.  He  was  cold  with  the  thought  of  the  interview 
being  weighed  in  the  balances  of  a  third  mind. 

"  You've  made  a  big  point  of  my  going  away,"  he 
essayed.  "  The  other  reason  is  not  a  pretty  matter,  and 
doubtless  you  will  call  any  repugnance  of  mine  an 
affectation " 


202  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

"  Repugnance — what  do  you  mean  ? "  she  asked 
savagely,  yet  she  was  afraid,  afraid  of  his  cool  tongue. 
"  I  never  lied  to  you." 

"  That  may  be  true.  I'm  not  curious  for  evidence 
to  the  contrary.  The  day  before  I  left  for  the  West,  a 
friend  told  me  that  you  and  I  were  being  watched ;  that 
all  our  movements  were  known.  I  didn't  believe  it ; 
could  not  see  the  sense — until  it  was  proved  that  same 
night  by  the  devious  walk  we  took.  .  .  .  You  doubtless 
remember  the  face  of  that  young  night-bird  whom  we 
once  laughed  about.  We  thought  it  just  one  of  those 
coincidences  which  frequently  occur — a  certain  face  bob 
bing  up  everywhere  for  a  number  of  days.  I  assured 
myself  that  night  that  you  knew  nothing  of  this  re 
markable  outside  interest  in  our  affairs." 

Selma  Cross,  with  swift  stealth,  disappeared  into  the 
apartment-hall  and  closed  the  outer  door;  then  re 
turned,  facing  him.  Her  yellow  eyes  were  wide  open, 
rilled  with  a  misty,  tortured  look.  To  Charter  the  place 
and  the  woman  had  become  haggard  with  emptiness. 
He  missed  the  occasional  click  of  the  elevator  in  the 
outer-hall,  for  it  had  seemed  to  keep  him  in  touch  with 
the  world's  activities.  The  old  carnal  magnetism  of 
Selma  Cross  stirred  not  a  tissue  in  him  now ;  the  odor 
of  her  garments  which  once  roused  him,  was  forbidding. 
He  had  not  the  strength  to  believe  that  the  door  had 
been  shut  for  any  other  reason  than  to  prevent  Skylark 
from  hearing.  The  actress  had  not  minded  how  their 
voices  carried,  so  long  as  he  was  being  arraigned.  .  .  . 
The  air  was  devitalized.  It  was  as  if  they  were  dying 
of  heart-break — without  a  sound.  ...  It  had  been  so 
wonderful — this  thought  of  finding  his  mate  after  the 


New  Battle-ground  203 

aeons,  his  completion — a  woman  beautiful  with  soul-age 
and  spiritual  light.  .  .  . 

Selma  Cross  was  speaking.  Charter  stirred  from  his 
great  trouble.  She  was  changed,  no  longer  the  clever 
mistress  of  a  dramatic  hour.  .  .  .  Each  was  so  burdened 
with  a  personal  tragedy  that  pity  for  the  other  was 
slow  to  warm  between  them. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  old  Villiers  paid  the  night-bird 
to  watch  us — to  learn  where  we  went,  and  possibly  what 
we  said?"  she  was  saying  hoarsely.  Selrna  Cross  felt 
already  that  her  cad  was  exploded. 

"  Yes,  and  that  was  unpleasant,"  Charter  told  her. 
"  I  didn't  like  the  feel  of  that  procurer's  eyes,  but  what 
revolted  me  was  Villiers  himself.  I  took  pains  to  learn 
his  name  the  next  day — that  last  day.  There  isn't  a 
more  unclean  human  package  in  New  York.  ...  It 
was  so  unlike  you.  I  couldn't  adjust  the  two.  I  couldn't 
be  where  he  had  been.  I  was  sick  with  my  own  degrada 
tion.  I  went  back  to  my  garret." 

Selma  Cross  was  crippled;  she  saw  there  was  no 
lie  in  this.  At  what  a  price  had  been  bought  the  res 
toration  of  faith  for  Paula  Linster!  .  .  .  She  had  heard 
after  their  compact  about  Villiers'  early  days.  There 
had  been  times  when  her  fingers  itched  to  tighten  upon 
his  scrawny  throat.  To  have  Quentin  Charter  hear  this 
record  was  fire  in  her  veins;  it  embraced  the  added 
horror  that  Stephen  Cabot  might  also  hear.  .  .  .  There 
was  nothing  further  with  which  to  charge  the  man  be 
fore  her.  She  nursed  her  wrath  to  keep  from  crying 
out. 

"  Was  it  a  man's  way  to  give  me  no  chance  to 
explain  ?  "  she  demanded. 


204.  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

"  Broadway  knew  Villiers." 

"I  did  not!" 

"  Anyway,  I  couldn't  get  it  straight  in  my  mind, 
then,"  Charter  said  hastily.  "  You're  no  vulgar  woman, 
mad  after  colors  and  dollars.  You  love  your  work  too 
much  to  be  one  of  those  insatiable  deserts  of  passion. 
Nor  are  you  a  creature  of  black  evolution  who  prefers 
the  soul,  to  the  body  of  man,  for  a  plaything.  .  .  . 
You  were  all  that  was  generous  and  normally  fervent 
with  me.  .  .  .  Let's  cut  the  subject.  It  does  not  excuse 
me  for  not  calling  when  I  came  to  New  York.  You 
were  nothing  if  not  good  to  me." 

"  Then  Villiers  paid  to  find  out  things  about  us," 
she  said  slowly.  "  He  said  you  bragged  about  such 
matters  to  your  friends." 

Charter  shivered.  "  I  fail  to  see  how  you  troubled 
about  a  man  not  writing — if  you  could  believe  that  about 
him." 

"  I  didn't  see  how  he  could  know  our  places  of 
meeting — any  other  way.  I  should  never  have  seen 
him  again,  if  he  hadn't  made  me  believe  this  of  you." 

Charter  scarcely  heard  her.  The  thought  was  inevitable 
now  that  the  actress  might  have  represented  him  to  Sky 
lark  as  one  with  the  loathed  habit  of  talking  about  women 
to  his  friends.  The  quick  inclination  to  inquire  could 
not  overcome  his  distaste  for  mentioning  a  dear  name 
in  this  room.  The  radiant,  flashing  spirit  behind  the 
letters  did  not  belong  here.  .  .  .  His  brain  ached  with 
emptiness;  he  wondered  continually  how  he  could  ever 
fill  the  spaces  expanded  by  the  Skylark's  singing.  .  .  . 

In  the  brain  of  Selma  Cross  a  furious  struggle  was 
joined.  Never  before  had  she  been  given  to  see  so 


New  Battle-ground  205 

clearly  her  own  limitations — and  this  in  the  high  light 
of  her  great  dramatic  triumph.  Her  womanhood  con 
tained  that  mighty  quality  of  worshiping  intellect.  This, 
she  had  loved  in  Charter  long  ago;  in  Stephen  Cabot 
now.  The  inner  key  to  her  greatness  was  her  capacity 
to  forget  the  animal  in  man — if  he  proved  a  brain. 
There  is  only  one  higher  reverence — that  of  forgetting 
brain  to  worship  soul.  Perceiving  the  attitude  of  Quen- 
tin  Charter  to  her  old  life,  it  was  made  clear  to  her 
that  she  must  preserve  a  lie  in  her  relation  with  Stephen 
Cabot;  if,  indeed,  the  playwright  did  not  learn  outside, 
as  Charter  had  done.  It  was  plain  that  he  did  not  know 
yet,  since  he  had  not  run  from  her — to  a  garret  some 
where.  What  a  hideous  mockery  was  this  night — begun 
in  pride !  Distantly  she  was  grateful  that  Paula  Linster 
was  at  hand  to  be  restored,  but  her  own  mind  was 
whipped  and  cowed  by  its  thoughts — so  there  was  little 
energy  for  another's  romance.  .  .  .  Charter  had  made  no 
comment  on  her  last  remark.  She  realized  now  that 
his  thoughts  were  bearing  him  close  to  the  truth. 

"  You  say  they  forced  you  to  cast  out  your  enemy," 
she  declared  hoarsely.  "I  cast  out  mine  of  my  own 
accord.  If  there  is  palliation  for  you,  there  should  be 
for  a  woman  in  her  first  experience.  You  asked  me 
to  stretch  my  imagination  about  a  drink-reaction  making 
you  avoid  me.  I  ask  you,  how  is  a  woman,  for  the  first 
time  alone  with  a  man — to  know  that  he  is  different 
from  other  men?  Add  to  this,  a  woman  who  has  come 
up  from  the  dregs — for  years  in  the  midst  of  the  slum- 
blooms  of  the  chorus?  What  I  heard  from  them  of 
their  nights — would  have  taxed  the  versatility  of  even 
Villiers — to  make  me  see  him  lower  than  I  expected! 


206  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

I  ask  you — how  did  I  know  he  was  an  exception — 
rather  than  the  rule  among  the  Glowworms  ?  " 

"  I'm  rather  glad  you  said  that,"  Charter  declared 
quickly.  "  It's  a  point  of  view  I'm  grateful  for.  Do 
you  wonder  that  the  life  from  which  you  have  risen  to  one 
of  the  regnant  queens  has  become  inseparable  in  my 
mind  with  shuddering  aversion  ?  " 

In  the  extremity  of  her  suffering,  her  mind  had 
reverted,  as  an  artist's  always  does  when  desperately 
pressed,  to  thoughts  of  work — work,  the  healer,  the 
refuge  where  devils  truly  are  cast  out.  Even  in  her 
work  she  now  encountered  the  lash,  since  Charter  de 
spised  it.  Literally,  she  was  at  bay  before  him. 

"  Always  that !  "  she  cried.  "  It  is  detestable  in  you 
always  to  blame  my  work.  I  broke  training.  I  should 
have  won  without  the  damned  angel.  You  degraded 
yourself  for  years  in  your  work,  but  I  don't  hear  you 
blaming  art  for  your  debaucheries !  You  have  sat  alone 
so  long  that  you  think  all  men  outside  are  foul.  You 
sit  high  in  your  attic,  so  that  all  men  look  like  bugs 
below!" 

"  There  is  something  in  what  you  say,"  he  answered, 
aroused  by  her  bigness  and  strength.  "  Yet  in  my 
garret,  I  do  not  deal  with  rootless  abstractions.  Every 
thing  has  its  foundation  in  actual  observation.  I  moved 
long  among  the  play-managers,  and  found  them  men  of 
huckster-minds — brainless  money-bags,  dependent  upon 
every  passing  wind  of  criticism.  I  tell  you,  when  one 
talked  to  them  or  to  their  office-apes — one  felt  him 
self,  his  inner-self,  rushing  forth  as  if  to  fill  something 
bottomless " 

"  You  do  not  know  Vhruebert " 


New  Battle-ground  207 

"  Eliminate  him.  I  am  not  speaking  of  any  par 
ticular  man.  I  do  not  mean  all  playwrights  when  I 
say  that  I  found  playwrights  as  a  class,  not  literary 
workers — but  literary  tricksters.  I  am  not  speaking 
of  The  Thing,  nor  of  its  author,  of  whom  I  have  heard 
excellent  word — when  I  say  that  plays  are  not  written, 
but  rewritten  by  elementals,  who,  through  their  sheer 
coarseness,  sense  the  slow  vibrations  of  the  mob,  and 
feculate  the  original  lines  to  suit." 

"  Bah — an  idea  from  one  of  your  nights,  when  you 
tried  to  drown  the  blue  devils!  It  broods  over  all  your 
thinking!  You  forget  the  great  army,  that  silent  army, 
which  is  continually  lifting  itself  artistically  by  writing 
one  after  another — impossible  plays.  You  forget  the 
great  hearts  of  the  players — men  and  women  who  pull 
together  for  big  results." 

"  I  am  not  speaking  of  the  vast  library  of  manu 
script  failures,  but  of  a  small  proportion  which  get  into 
the  sinister  glare  of  Broadway " 

"My  God,  Broadway  is  not  New  York!" 

"  For  which  I  am  powerfully  glad,"  he  answered  with 
energy.  "  As  for  warm  human  hearts — there  is  warmth 
and  loyalty,  genuine  tears  and  decent  hopes  in  every 
brothel  and  bar — yet  the  black  trends  of  their  existence 
course  on.  This  was  so  hard  for  me  to  learn,  that  I 
have  it  very  clearly.  ...  I  remember  the  opening  night 
of  Martha  Boardman  as  a  star — telegrams  pouring  in, 
critics  besieging  her  dressing-room.  Even  her  manager 
didn't  know  what  he  had,  until  the  critics  told  him  the 
play  would  stay  in  New  York  a  year — yet  his  name 
was  on  the  boards  above  the  star  and  bigger  than  the 
author's.  I  watched  the  bleak,  painted  faces  of  the 


208  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

women  and  heard  their  false  voices  acclaiming  the  new 
star.  What  they  had  in  their  hearts  was  not  praise,  but 
envy.  Their  words  were  sham,  indecency  and  lying. 
Eternally  simulating — that's  the  stage  life.  Pity  the 
women — poor  Maachas,  if  you  will — but  their  work  is 
damnable,  nevertheless.  It  is  from  such  unhappy 
creatures  evading  motherhood  that  youths  get  the  abom 
inable  notion  that  real  manhood  lies  in  the  loins." 

"  Poor  youths — go  on !  When  you  have  finished  I 
shall  tell  you  something." 

"  Don't  misunderstand  me,  Selma  Cross.  No  one 
knows  better  than  I — how  the  sexes  prey  upon  each 
other — how  they  drag  each  other  to  the  ground.  Only 
I  was  thinking  of  the  poor  things  in  ties,  canes,  cigarettes 
and  coatings — out  catching !  .  .  .  I  saw  the  whole  horrid, 
empty  game  of  the  stage.  You  have  come  wonderfully 
and  differently  into  the  glare,  but  let  me  ask  where  is 
Martha  Boardman  to-night — a  few  short  years  later  ?  " 
"  Yes,  she  was  tired,  her  energy  burned  out,  when  she 
finally  arrived.  It's  a  stiff  grade,"  Selma  Cross  said 
gently. 

"  I  would  explain  it,  that  she  was  prostituted  from 
excessive  simulation — season  after  season  of  simulation 
— emotion  after  emotion  false  to  herself !  The  Law  says, 
'  Live  your  own  life.'  The  Stage  says,  '  Act  mine,' — 
so  pitiably  often  a  poor  playwright's  abortive  sensations ! 
What  can  happen  to  a  body  that  continually  makes  of 
itself  a  lying  instrument?  Like  the  queen-bee  whose 
whole  life  is  made  up  of  egg-laying — the  brain  of  this 
poor  purveyor  of  emotions  becomes  a  waxy  pulp.  As 
for  her  soul — it  is  in  God's  hands — let  us  hope." 

"  It  is  good  to  laugh  at  you,  Quentin  Charter.    You 


New  Battle-ground  209 

have  another  appetite.  You  wanted  alcohol  when  I  knew 
you  first — now  you  thirst  after  purists  and  winged 
women.  I  have  a  lover  now  who  can  live  among  men, 
soar  just  as  high  as  you  do,  work  with  just  as  much 
greatness  and  strength,  without  ever  having  degraded 
himself  or  believed  all  human  creatures  vile.  The  stage 
has  its  shams,  its  mockeries,  but  its  glories,  too.  It 
is  not  all  deranged  by  money-bags.  The  most  brilliant 
of  your  writers  give  us  our  lines — the  most  wonderful 
of  your  mystics.  It  is  true  we  simulate ;  true  that  ours 
is  a  constant  giving;  but  call  in  your  garret-high  logic 
now,  Sir  Prophet:  Look  at  the  tired  empty  faces  of 
my  company,  look  at  mine,  after  we  have  finished  The 
Thing;  then  look  at  the  strengthened  grip  on  life  and 
the  lifted  hopes  which,  each  night,  the  multitude  takes 
from  out  our  breasts — and  call  ours  a  prostitution,  if 
you  can ! " 

Charter  arose  and  extended  his  hand,  which  she  took 
gracelessly,  but  was  instantly  sorry  that  she  had  mis 
judged  his  intent. 

"  Can't  you  see,  Selma  Cross,  that  you  and  I  have 
no  difference,  no  point  for  argument,  if  the  general 
run  of  plays  were  like  The  Thing — as  you  make  me 
see  it?  We  had  eliminated  this  from  the  discussion, 
but  I  have  nothing  but  praise  for  Vhruebert,  nothing 
but  enthusiasm  for  Mr.  Cabot  and  for  you — if  the  com 
bination  gives  the  people  an  expansion  of  hope  and  a 
lifted  ideal.  Do  that,  and  you  need  not  reckon  with 
critics." 

Instantly  she  changed  her  point  of  view  again,  so 
that  he  was  both  chilled  and  puzzled.     "  I  should  have 
been   glad  to   come  out   in   any   successful   play,"   she 
14 


210  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

said  wearily.  "  The  Thing  just  happens  to  have  an 
uplift " 

"  So  much  is  accomplished  for  you,  then.  You  will 
never  be  content  again  with  a  play  that  has  not.  Oh, 
I  don't  mean  ostensible  good,  melodramatically  con 
trasted  with  obvious  bad,  but  the  subtle  inspiration  of 
real  artists — that  marvellous  flexibility  of  line  and  large 
ness  of  meaning  that  fits  about  every  life!  Just  as  you 
can  draw  fresh  strength  again  and  again  from  a  great 
poem;  so,  in  performing  a  great  play — one  does  not  act, 
but  lives ! " 

"Are  you  going?"  she  questioned  absently. 

"  Yes,  I  confess  I  haven't  been  so  consumed  in 
years " 

She  drew  close  to  him.  ..."  It  has  been  dramatic, 
if  not  literary,  hasn't  it  ?  "  Her  nostrils  dilated  and  her 
lower  lip  was  drawn  back  between  her  teeth. 

He  smiled. 

"  I  feel  burnt  out,  too,"  she  went  on  softly.  "  It 
has  been  strange  to  be  with  you  again — almost  like — 
those  early  mornings.  .  .  .  Did  you  ever  hear  me  calling 
you — 'way  off  there  in  the  West?  I  used  to  lie  awake, 
all  feverish  after  you  went  away,  calling  in  a  whisper, 
'  Quentin — Quentin ! '  .  .  .  It  seemed  you  must  come, 
if  you  were  alive.  There  were  times  after  you  went 
away,  that  I  would  have  given  this  week's  victory,  which 
I  saw  from  afar, — to  have  you  rush  in  for  just  one 
hour !  ...  In  God's  name,"  she  cried  suddenly,  "  is 
there  really  this  sort  of  honor  in  living  man — is  it 
because  you  hate  me — or  do  you  have  to  drink  to  take 
a  woman  in  your  arms?  You,  who  used  to  be — singing 
flames?" 


New  Battle-ground  211 

Charter  was  not  unattracted,  but  his  self-command 
was  strangely  imperious.  There  was  magnetism  now  in 
the  old  passion — but  a  flutter  of  wings  broke  the  attrac 
tion.  .  .  .  Darkness  covered  the  wings,  and  the  song  was 
stilled ;  yet  in  that  faint  rustling,  was  enchantment  which 
changed  to  brute  matter — these  open  arms  and  the  rising 
breast. 

"  I'm  afraid  it  is  as  you  said — about  the  anaemic 
priest,"  he  muttered  laughingly.  .  .  .  And  then  it  occurred 
to  him  that  there  might  have  been  a  trick  to  her  tempt 
ing.  .  .  .  From  this  point  he  was  sexless  and  could  pity 
her,  though  his  nerves  were  raw  from  her  verbal  punish 
ments.  It  was  altogether  new  in  his  experience — this 
word- whipping ;  and  though  he  had  not  sharpened  a 
sentence  in  retaliation,  he  could  not  but  see  the  ghastly 
way  in  which  a  woman  is  betrayed  by  her  temper,  which 
checks  a  man's  passion  like  a  sudden  fright.  Between 
a  woman  given  to  rages  and  her  lover — lies  a  naked 
sword.  Consummate,  in  truth,  is  the  siren  who  has 
mastered  the  art  of  silence.  .  .  .  Selma  Cross  sank  back 
into  a  chair.  The  world's  wear  was  on  her  brow  and 
under  her  eyes,  as  she  laughed  bitterly. 

"  You  always  had  a  way  of  making  me  sick  of 
life,"  she  said  strangely.  "  I  wonder  if  ever  there  was 
a  humiliation  so  artistically  complete  as  mine  ? " 

This  was  another  facet  to  the  prism  of  the  woman. 
Charter  could  not  be  quite  certain  as  to  her  present 
intent,  so  frequently  alternating  had  been  the  currents 
of  her  emotion  during  the  interview.  Typically  an  ac 
tress,  she  had  run  through  her  whole  range  of  effects. 
He  was  not  prepared  yet  to  say  which  was  trick,  which 
reality;  which  was  the  woman,  Selma  Cross,  or  the 


212  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

tragedienne.  He  did  not  miss  the  thought  that  his 
theory  was  amazingly  strengthened  here — the  theory 
that  moral  derangement  results  from  excessive  simulation. 

"  You — would — not — kiss — me,"  she  repeated.  "  For 
my  own  sake,  I'd  like  to  believe — that  you're  trying  to  be 
true  to  some  one, — but  it's  all  rot  that  there  are  men 
like  that !  It's  because  I  no  longer  tempt  you — you  spook !" 

"  You  said  you  had  a  lover " 

She  shivered.  "  You  left  me  unfinished."  There  was 
a  tragic  plaint  in  her  tone,  and  she  added  hastily,  "  There 
was  a  reason  for  my  trying  you.  ...  I  think  the  most 
corroding  of  the  knives  you  have  left  in  me  to-night,  is 
that  you  have  refused  to  ask  why  I  brought  you  here — 
refused  even  to  utter  the  name — of  the  woman  you  ex 
pected  to  see — in  my  presence.  .  .  .  You  may  be  a  man ; 
you  may  be  a  cad ;  you  may  be  a  new  appetite,  or  a  God 
resurrected  out  of  a  Glowworm.  I  either  hate  or  love 
you — or  both — to  the  point  of  death!  Either  way — 
remember  this — I'll  be  square  as  a  die — to  you  and  to 
my  friend.  You'll  begin  to  see  what  I  mean — to-morrow, 
I  think."  .  .  . 

He  was  at  the  door.  "  Good-night,"  he  said  and 
touched  the  signal  for  the  elevator. 

She  called  him  back.  "  Come  and  see  me — at  my 
best — at  the  Herriot — won't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes " 

"  But  tell  me  what  performance — and  where  your 
seat  is " 

"...  Good-night." 

The  car  stopped  at  the  floor. 


SIXTEENTH   CHAPTER 

PAULA   FINDING   THAT   BOTH   GIANTS   HAVE 

ENTERED    HER  CASTLE,  RUSHES  IN 

TUMULT  INTO  THE  NIGHT 

IT  was  after  eight  that  Sunday  night,  when  Paula 
emerged  from  the  elevator  in  the  upper-hall  of  the 
Zoroaster,  and  noted  that  the  door  of  the  Selma  Cross 
apartment  was  ajar.  .  .  .  The  interval  since  she  had 
parted  from  the  actress  the  evening  before  had  been 
abundant  with  misery.  Almost,  she  had  crossed  the  bay 
to  visit  the  Reifferscheids ;  would  have  done  so,  indeed, 
had  she  been  able  to  'phone  her  coming.  Her  rooms  had 
become  a  dismal  oppression;  Bellingham  haunted  her 
consciousness ;  there  were  moments  when  she  was  actually 
afraid  there  alone. 

All  Saturday  night  she  had  sleeplessly  tossed,  knowing 
that  Quentin  Charter  was  speeding  eastward,  and  dread 
ing  the  moment  when  he  should  arrive  in  the  city  and 
find  no  welcoming  note  from  her.  She  dared  not  be  in 
her  rooms  after  he  was  due  to  reach  the  Granville,  lest 
he  call  her  by  telephone  or  messenger — and  her  purpose 
of  not  seeing  him  be  destroyed  by  some  swift  and  salient 
appeal.  She  had  waited  until  after  the  hour  in  which 
he  had  asked  to  call,  to  be  sure  that  this  time  he  would 
have  given  up  all  hope  of  seeing  her.  The  prospect  now 
of  entering  her  apartment  and  remaining  there  through 
out  the  night,  challenged  every  ounce  of  will-force  she 
possessed.  .  .  . 

213 


214.  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

Battling  with  loneliness  and  bereavement,  as  she  had 
been  for  hours,  Paula  was  grateful  to  note,  by  the  open 
door,  that  the  actress  was  at  home,  even  though  she  had 
left  her  the  evening  before,  hurt  and  disappointed  by  the 
other's  swift  change  of  manner  upon  learning  that 
Quentin  Charter  was  to  be  in  New  York  to-day.  ...  It 
was  with  a  startling  but  indefinable  emotion  that  she 
heard  the  man's  voice  now  through  the  open  door. 
Stephen  Cabot  was  there,  she  thought,  as  she  softly  let 
herself  in  to  the  place  of  ordeals,  which  her  own  flat 
had  become. 

In  the  dark  and  silence  of  the  inner  hall,  the  old 
enemy  swept  into  her  consciousness — again  the  awful 
localizations  of  the  preying  force!  The  usual  powers  of 
mind  scattered,  as  in  war  the  pith  of  a  capital's  gar 
risons  rush  forth  to  distant  borders.  By  habit,  her 
hand  was  upon  the  button,  but  she  did  not  turr  on  light. 
Instead,  she  drew  back,  steeling  her  will  to  remember 
her  name,  her  place  in  the  world,  her  friends.  Harshly 
driven,  yet  Paula  repressed  a  cry,  and  fought  her  way 
out  into  the  main  hall — as  from  the  coiling  suction  of 
a  maelstrom.  Even  in  her  terror,  she  could  not  but 
repress  a  swift  sense  of  victory,  in  that  she  had  escaped 
from  the  vortex  of  attraction — her  own  rooms. 

The  man's  voice  reached  her  again,  filled  her  mind 
with  amazing  resistance — so  that  the  point  of  the  oc 
cultist's  will  was  broken.  Suddenly,  she  remembered 
that  she  had  once  heard  Stephen  Cabot,  protesting  that 
he  was  quite  well — at  the  end  of  the  first  New  York 
performance  of  The  Thing,  and  that  his  tones  were 
inseparably  identified  with  his  misfortune.  The  voice 
she  heard  now  thrilled  her  like  an  ancient,  but  instantly 


Enter,  the  Giants  215 

familiar,  harmony.  It  was  not  Stephen  Cabot's.  She 
stood  at  the  open  door,  when  the  vehemence  of  Selma 
Cross,  who  was  now  speaking,  caused  her  to  refrain 
from  making  her  presence  known.  The  unspeakable 
possibility,  suddenly  upreared  in  her  mind,  banished 
every  formality.  The  full  energies  of  her  life  formed 
in  a  prayer  that  she  might  be  wrong,  as  Paula  peered 
through  the  inner  hall,  and  for  the  first  time  in  the 
flesh  glimpsed  Quentin  Charter. 

She  was  standing  before  the  elevator-shaft  and  had 
signaled  for  the  car  eternities  ago.  Selma  Cross  was 
moving  up  and  down  the  room  within,  but  her  words 
though  faintly  audible,  had  no  meaning  to  the  woman 
without.  Paula's  mind  seemed  so  filled  with  sayings 
from  the  actress  that  there  was  no  room  for  the  in 
terpretation  of  a  syllable  further.  One  sentence  of 
Charter's  startled  her  with  deadly  pain.  .  .  .  She  could 
wait  no  longer,  and  started  to  walk  down.  Half-way 
to  the  main-floor,  the  elevator  sped  upward  to  answer 
her  bell.  .  .  .  She  was  very  weak,  and  temptation  was 
fiercely  operative  to  return  to  her  rooms,  when  she 
heard  a  slow,  firm  step  ascending  the  flight  below.  She 
turned  from  the  stairs  on  the  second  floor,  just  as  the 
huge,  lean  shoulders  of  Bellingham  appeared  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  elevator-shaft. 

The  two  faced  without  words.  His  countenance  was 
livid,  wasted,  but  his  eyes  were  of  fire.  Paula  lost 
herself  in  their  power.  She  knew  only  that  she  must 
return  with  him.  There  was  no  place  to  go;  indeed, 
to  return  with  him  now  seemed  normal,  rational — until 
the  brightly-lit  car  rushed  down  and  stopped  before 
them. 


216  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

"  Excuse  me  for  keeping  you  waiting,  Miss  Linster," 
the  elevator-man  said,  "  but  I  had  to  carry  a  message  to 
the  rear." 

In  the  instantaneous  break  of  Bellingham's  con 
centration,  Paula  recovered  herself  sufficiently  to  dart 
into  the  car. 

"  Down,  if  you  please,"  she  said  hoarsely.  "  The 
gentleman  is  going  up." 

Bellingham,  who  had  started  to  follow,  was  stopped 
by  the  sliding-door.  The  conductor  called  that  he  would 
be  back  directly,  as  his  car  slid  down.  ...  In  the  un- 
tellable  disorganization  of  mind,  Paula  knew  for  the 
moment  only  this:  she  must  reach  the  outer  dark 
ness  instantly  or  expire.  In  that  swift  drop  to  the 
main  floor,  and  in  the  brief  interval  required  to  stop 
the  car  and  slide  the  door,  she  endured  all  the  agony 
of  tightened  fingers  upon  her  throat.  There  was  an 
ease  in  racing  limbs,  as  she  sped  across  the  tiles  to 
the  entrance,  as  a  frightened  child  rushes  from  a  dark 
room.  She  would  die  if  the  great  door  resisted — 
pictured  it  all  before  her  hand  touched  the  knob.  She 
would  turn,  scream,  and  fall  from  suffocation.  Her 
scream  would  call  about  her  the  horror  that  she  feared. 

The  big  door  answered,  as  it  seemed,  with  a  sort 
of  leisurely  dignity  to  her  spasm  of  strength — and  out 
under  the  rain-blurred  lamps,  she  ran,  ready  to  faint 
if  any  one  called,  and  continually  horrified  lest  some 
thing  pluck  at  her  skirts — thus  to  Central  Park  West. 
An  Eighth  Avenue  car  was  approaching,  half  a  square 
above.  To  stand  and  wait,  in  the  fear  lest  Bellingham 
reach  the  corner  in  time  for  the  car,  assailed  the  last 
of  her  vitality.  It  was  not  until  she  had  boarded  it, 


Enter,  the  Giants  217 

and  was  beyond  reach  of  a  pedestrian  on  Cathedral 
Way,  that  she  breathed  as  one  who  has  touched  shore 
after  the  Rapids.  Still,  every  south-bound  cab  renewed 
her  panic.  She  could  have  made  time  to  South  Ferry 
by  changing  to  the  Elevated,  but  fear  of  encountering 
the  Destroyer  prevented  this.  Fully  three-quarters  of 
an  hour  was  used  in  reaching  the  waiting-room,  where 
she  was  fortunate  in  catching  a  Staten  Island  boat  with 
out  delay.  Every  figure  that  crossed  the  bridge  after 
her,  until  the  big  ferry  put  off,  Paula  scrutinized;  then 
sank  nearly  fainting  into  a  seat. 

Bellingham's  plot  was  clear  to  her  mind,  as  well  as 
certain  elements  of  his  craft  to  obviate  every  possibility  of 
failure.  He  had  doubtless  seen  her  enter  the  house,  and 
timed  his  control  to  dethrone  her  volition  as  she  reached 
her  rooms.  Since  the  elevator-man  would  not  have  taken 
him  up,  without  word  from  her,  Bellingham  had  hastened 
in  and  started  up  the  stairs  when  the  car  was  called 
from  the  main  floor.  His  shock  at  finding  her  in  the 
second-hall  was  extraordinary,  since  he  was  doubtless 
struggling  with  the  entire  force  of  his  concentration,  to 
hold  her  in  the  higher  apartment  and  to  prepare  her 
mind  for  his  own  reception.  It  was  that  moment  that 
the  elevator-man  had  saved  her;  yet,  she  could  not 
forget  how  the  voice  of  Quentin  Charter  had  broken 
the  magician's  power  a  moment  before;  and  it  oc 
curred  to  her  now  how  wonderfully  throughout  her 
whole  Bellingham  experience,  something  of  the  West 
erner's  spirit  had  sustained  her  in  the  crises — Quentin 
Charter's  book  that  first  night  in  Prismatic  Hall ;  Quen 
tin  Charter's  letter  to  which  she  had  clung  during  the 
dreadful  interview  in  the  Park.  . 


218  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

As  for  Quentin  Charter  rushing  immediately  to  the 
woman  of  lawless  attractions,  because  he  had  not  re 
ceived  the  hoped-for  note  at  the  Granville — in  this  ap 
peared  a  wantonness  almost  beyond  belief.  Wearily  she 
tried  to  put  the  man  and  his  base  action  entirely  out 
of  mind.  And  Selma  Cross,  whose  animation  had  been 
so  noticeable  when  informed  of  Charter's  coming,  had 
fallen  beneath  the  reach  of  Paula's  emotions.  .  .  .  She 
could  pity — with  what  a  torrential  outpouring — could 
she  pity  "  that  finest,  lowest  head !  " 

She  stepped  out  on  deck.  The  April  night  was 
inky-black.  All  day  there  had  been  a  misty  rain  from 
which  the  chill  of  winter  was  gone.  The  dampness  was 
sweet  to  breathe  and  fresh  upon  her  face.  The  smell 
of  ocean  brought  up  from  the  sub-conscious,  a  thought 
already  in  tangible  formation  there.  The  round  clock 
in  the  cabin  forward  had  indicated  nine-forty-five.  It 
seemed  more  like  another  day,  than  only  an  hour  and 
a  half  ago,  that  she  had  caught  the  Eighth  Avenue 
car  at  Cathedral  Way.  The  ferry  was  nearing  the 
Staten  slip.  In  a  half-hour  more,  she  would  reach 
Reifferscheid's  house.  Her  heart  warmed  with  grati 
tude  for  a  friend  to  whom  she  could  say  as  little  or 
as  much  as  she  pleased,  yet  find  him,  heart  and  home, 
at  her  service.  One  must  be  terrified  and  know  the 
need  of  a  refuge  in  the  night  to  test  such  values.  A 
few  hours  before,  she  had  rejected  the  thought  of 
going,  because  a  slight  formality  had  not  been  attended 
to.  Hard  pressed  now,  she  was  seeking  him  in  the 
midst  of  the  night.  ...  At  the  mention  of  the  big 
man's  name,  the  conductor  on  the  Silver  Lake  car  took 
her  in  charge,  helped  her  off  at  the  right  road,  and 


Enter,  the  Giants  219 

pointed  out  the  Reifferscheid  light.  Thus  she  felt  her 
friend's  kindness  long  before  she  heard  the  big  elms 
whispering  over  his  cottage.  The  front-window  -was 
frankly  uncurtained,  and  the  editor  sat  within,  soft- 
shirted  and  eminently  comfortable  beside  a  green-shaded 
reading-lamp.  She  even  saw  him  drop  his  book  at  her 
step  upon  the  walk.  A  moment  later,  she  blinked  at 
him  laughingly,  as  he  stood  in  the  light  of  the  wide 
open  doorway. 

"  Properly  '  Driven  From  Home,'  I  suppose  I  should 
be  tear-stained  and  in  shawl  and  apron,"  she  began. 

He  laughed  delightedly,  and  exclaimed :  "  How  could 
Father  be  so  obdurate — alas,  a-a-las!  Lemme  see,  this 
is  a  fisherman's  hut  on  the  moors,  or  a  gardener's  lodge 
on  the  shore.  Anyway,  it's  good  to  have  you  here. 
.  .  .  Annie!" 

He  took  her  hat  and  raincoat,  wriggling  meanwhile 
into  a  coat  of  his  own,  arranged  a  big  chair  before  the 
grate,  then  removed  her  rubbers.  Not  a  question  did 
he  ask,  and  Sister  Annie's  greeting  presently,  from  her 
chair,  was  quite  the  same — as  if  the  visit  and  the  hour 
were  exactly  in  order. 

"  You'll  stay  a  day  or  two,  won't  you  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  Honestly,  I  don't  like  the  way  they  treat  you  up 
there  beyond  the  Park.  ...  It  will  be  fine  to-morrow. 
This  soft  rain  will  make  Mother  Earth  turn  over  and 
take  an  eye-opener " 

"  The  truth  is,  I  want  to  stay  until  there's  a  ship 
for  the  Antilles,"  she  told  him,  "  and  I  don't  know 
when  the  first  one  goes." 

"  I  hope  it's  a  week  at  least,"  he  said  briskly.  "  The 
morning  papers  are  here  with  all  the  sailings.  A  sea- 


220  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

voyage  will  do  you  a  world  of  good,  and  Europe  doesn't 
compare  with  a  trip  to  the  Caribbean." 

"  Just  you  two — and  one  other — are  to  know,"  Paula 
added  nervously. 

Reifferscheid  had  gathered  up  a  bundle  of  papers, 
and  was  turning  pages  swiftly.  "  There  isn't  a  reason 
in  the  world  why  everybody  should  know,"  he  remarked 
lightly,  "  only  you'd  better  be  Lottie  or  Daisy  Whats- 
her-name,  as  the  cabin  lists  of  all  outgoing  ships  are 
available  to  any  one  who  looks." 

"  Tim  will  be  delighted  to  make  everything  easy  for 
you,"  Sister  Annie  put  in. 

Thus  mountains  dissolved.  The  soulful  accord  and 
the  instant  sympathy  which  sprang  to  meet  her  every 
word,  and  the  valor  behind  it  all,  so  solid  as  to  need 
no  explanation — were  more  than  Paula  could  bear.  .  .  . 
Reifferscheid  looked  up  from  his  papers,  finding  that 
she  did  not  speak,  started  with  embarrassment,  and 
darted  to  the  buffet.  A  moment  later  he  had  given  her 
a  glass  of  wine  and  vanished  from  the  room  with  an 
armful  of  newspapers.  The  door  had  no  sooner  closed 
upon  him  than  Paula  discovered  the  outstretched  arms 
of  Sister  Annie.  In  the  several  moments  which  fol 
lowed  her  heart  was  healed  and  soothed  through  a 
half-forgotten  luxury.  .  .  . 

"  The  twin-screw  liner,  Fruitlands, — do  you  really 
want  the  first  ? "  Reifferscheid  interrupted  himself, 
when  he  was  permitted  to  enter  later. 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  it  sails  in  forty-eight  hours,  or  a  little  less — 
Savannah,  Santiago  de  Cuba,  San  Juan  de  Porto  Rico — 
and  down  to  the  little  Antilles — Tuesday  night  at  ten 
o'clock  at  the  foot  of  Manhattan." 


Enter,  the  Giants  221 

"  That  will  do  very  well,"  Paula  said,  "  and  I'd  like 
to  go  straight  to  the  ship  from  here — if  you'll " 

"  Berth — transportation — trunks — and  sub-let  your 
flat,  if  you  like,"  Reifferscheid  said  as  gleefully  as  a 
boy  invited  for  a  week's  hunt.  "  Why,  Miss  Linster, 
I  am  the  original  arrangement  committee." 

"  You  have  always  been  wonderful  to  me,"  Paula 
could  not  help  saying,  though  it  shattered  his  ease. 
"  This  one  other  who  must  know  is  Madame  Nestor. 
She'll  take  care  of  my  flat  and  pack  things  for  me — 
if  you'll  get  a  message  to  her  in  the  morning  when 
you  go  over.  I  don't  expect  to  be  gone  so  long  that 
it  will  be  advisable  to  sub-let." 

"  Which  is  emphatically  glad  tidings,"  Reifferscheid 
remarked  hastily. 

"  You'll  want  all  your  summer  clothes,"  said  Sister 
Annie.  "  Tim  will  see  to  your  trunks." 

"  Sometime,  I'll  make  it  all  plain,"  Paula  tried  to 
say  steadily.  "  It's  just  been  life  to  me — this  coming 
here — and  knowing  that  I  could  come  here " 

"  Miss  Linster,"  Reifferscheid  broke  in,  "  I  don't 
want  to  have  to  disappear  again.  The  little  things 
you  need  done,  I'd  do  for  any  one  in  the  office.  Please 
bear  in  mind  that  Sister  Annie  and  I  would  be  hurt 
— if  you  didn't  let  us  do  them.  Why,  we  belong — in 
a  case  like  this.  Incidentally,  you  are  doing  a  bully 
thing — to  take  a  sail  down  past  that  toy-archipelago. 
They  say  you  can  hear  the  parakeets  screeching  out 
from  the  palm-trees  on  the  shore,  and  each  island  has 
a  different  smell  of  spice.  It  will  be  great  for  you — 
rig  you  out  with  a  new  set  of  wings.  You  must  take 
Hearn  along.  I've  got  his  volume  here  on  the  West 


222  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

Indies.  He'll  tell  you  the  color  of  the  water  your  ship 
churns.  Each  day  farther  south  it's  a  different  blue " 

So  he  jockeyed  her  into  laughing,  and  she  slept 
long  and  dreamlessly  that  night,  as  she  had  done  once 
before  in  the  same  room.  .  .  .  The  second  night  fol 
lowing,  Reifferscheid  put  her  aboard  the  Fruitlands. 

"  It's  good  you  thought  of  taking  your  cabin  under 
a  borrowed  name,  Miss — er — Wyndam — Miss  Laura 
Wyndam,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  for  the  passengers 
were  moving  about.  "  I'll  write  you  all  about  it.  You 
have  famous  friends.  Selma  Cross,  who  is  playing  at 
the  Herriot,  wanted  to  know  where  you  were.  I  thought 
for  a  minute  she  was  going  to  throw  me  down  and  take 
it  away  from  me.  Quentin  Charter,  by  the  way,  is 
in  town  and  asked  about  you.  Seemed  depressed  when 
I  told  him  you  were  out  of  town,  and  hadn't  sent 
your  address  to  me  yet.  I  told  him  and  Miss  Cross 
that  mail  for  you  sent  to  The  States  would  get  to  you 
eventually.  Both  said  they  would  write — so  you'll  hear 
from  them  on  the  ship  that  follows  this."  He  glanced 
at  her  queerly  for  a  second,  and  added,  "  Good-by,  and 
a  blessed  voyage  to  you,  Tired  Lady.  Write  us  how 
the  isles  bewitch  you,  and  I'll  send  you  a  package  of 
books  every  ship  or  two " 

"  Good-by — my  first  of  friends !  " 

Two  hours  afterward  Paula  took  a  last  turn  on  deck. 
The  spray  swept  in  gusts  over  the  Fruitlands  s  dipping 
prow.  The  bare  masts,  tipped  with  lights,  swung  with 
a  giant  sweep  from  port  to  starboard  and  back  to  port 
again,  fingering  the  black  heavens  for  the  blown-out 
stars.  She  was  lonely,  but  not  altogether  miserable, 
out  there  on  the  tossing  floor  of  the  Atlantic.  .  .  . 


SEVENTEENTH  CHAPTER 

PAULA  SAILS  INTO  THE  SOUTH,  SEEKING  THE  HOLY 

MAN   OF  SAINT  PIERRE,  WHERE  LA   MON- 

TAGNE  PELEE  GIVES  WARNING 

WONDERFULLY  strengthened,  she  was,  by  the  voyage. 
Sorrow  had  destroyed  large  fields  of  verdure,  and  turned 
barren  the  future,  but  its  devouring  was  finished.  Quen- 
tin  Charter  was  adjusted  in  her  mind  to  a  duality  with 
which  Paula  Linster  could  have  no  concern.  Only  to 
one  mistress  could  he  be  faithful;  indeed,  it  was  only 
in  the  presence  of  this  mistress  that  he  became  the 
tower  of  visions  to  another;  in  the  midst  of  the  work 
he  worshipped,  Quentin  Charter  had  heard  the  Skylark 
sing.  Paula  did  not  want  to  see  him  again,  nor  Selma 
Cross.  To  avoid  these  two,  as  well  as  the  place  where  the 
Destroyer  had  learned  so  well  to  penetrate,  she  had 
managed  not  to  return  to  her  apartment  during  the 
two  days  before  sailing.  .  .  .  There  would  never  be 
another  master-romance — never  again  so  rich  a  giving, 
nor  so  pure  an  ideal.  Before  this  tragic  reality,  the 
inner  glory  of  her  womanhood  became  meaningless.  It 
was  this  that  made  the  future  a  crossing  of  sterile 
tundras, — yet  she  would  keep  her  friends,  and  love  her 
work,  and  try  to  hold  her  faith.  .  .  . 

Bellingham  did  not  call  her  at  sea,  but  he  had  fright 
ened  her  too  profoundly  to  be  far  from  mind.  The  face 
she  had  seen  in  the  hall-way  was  drawn  and  disordered 
by  the  dreadful  tortures  of  nether-planes ;  and  awful  in 
the  eyes,  was  that  feline  vacancy  of  soul.  Once  in  a 

223 


224  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

dream,  she  saw  him — a  pale  reptile-monster  upreared 
from  a  slaty  sea,  voiceless  in  that  oceanic  isolation,  a 
shameful  secret  of  the  depths.  The  ghastly  bulk  had 
risen  with  a  mute  protest  to  the  sky  against  dissolution 
and  creeping  decay — and  sounded  again.  .  .  . 

To  her,  Bellingham  was  living  death,  the  triumph 
of  desire  which  rends  itself,  the  very  essence  of  tragedy. 
She  gladly  would  have  died  to  make  her  race  see  the 
awfulness  of  just  flesh — as  she  saw  it  now.  .  .  .  His 
power  seemed  ended;  she  felt  with  the  Reifferscheids 
and  Madame  Nestor,  that  her  secret  was  hermetic,  and 
there  was  a  goodly  sense  of  security  in  the  intervening 
sea.  .  .  . 

And  now  there  was  a  new  island  each  day;  each 
morning  a  fresh  garden  arose  from  the  Caribbean — sun- 
wooed,  rain-softened  isles  with  colorful  little  ports.  .  .  . 
There  was  one  tropic  city — she  could  not  recall  the 
name — which  from  the  offing  had  looked  like  the 
flower-strewn  gateway  to  an  amphitheatre  of  moun 
tains. 

The  Fruitlands  had  lain  for  a  day  in  the  hot,  sharky 
harbor  of  Santiago;  had  run  into  a  real  cloudburst  off 
the  Silver  Reefs  of  Santo  Domingo,  and  breathed  on 
the  radiant  next  morning  before  the  stately  and  ancient 
city  of  San  Juan  de  Porto  Rico — shining  white  as  a 
dream-castle  of  old  Spain,  and  adrift  in  an  azure  world 
of  sky  and  sea.  She  spent  a  day  and  an  evening  in 
this  isle  of  ripe  fruits  and  riper  amours ;  and  took  away 
materials  for  a  memory  composite  of  interminable  siestas, 
restless  radiant  nights,  towering  cliffs,  incomparable 
courtesy,  and  soft-voiced  maidens  with  wondrous  Spanish 
eyes  that  laugh  and  turn  away. 


Pelee  Gives  Warning  225 

Then  for  two  days  they  had  steamed  down  past 
the  saintly  archipelago — St.  Thomas,  St.  Martin,  St. 
Kitts;  then  Montserrat,  Guadeloupe,  Dominica,  and  a 
legion  of  littler  isles — truncated  peaks  jutting  forth  from 
fragrant,  tinted  water.  There  were  afternoons  when  she 
did  not  care  to  lift  her  voice  or  move  about.  Fruit- 
juices  and  the  simplest  salads,  a  flexible  cane  chair  under 
the  awnings,  a  book  to  rest  the  eyes  from  the  gorgeous 
sea  and  enchanted  shores,  somnolence  rather  than  sleep 
— these  are  enough  for  the  approach  to  perfection  in  the 
Caribbean,  with  the  Lesser  Antilles  on  the  lee.  .  .  .  Then 
at  last  in  late  afternoon,  the  great  hulking  shape  of 
Pelee  loomed  watery  green  against  the  sky;  in  the 
swift-speeding  twilight,  the  volcano  seemed  to  swell  and 
blacken  until  it  was  like  the  shadow  of  a  continent, 
and  the  lights  of  Saint  Pierre  pricked  off  the  edge  of 
the  land. 

At  last  late  at  night,  queerly  restless,  she  sat  alone 
on  deck  in  the  windless  roadstead  and  regarded  the 
illumined  terraces  of  Saint  Pierre.  They  had  told  her 
that  the  breath  from  Martinique  was  like  the  heavy  moist 
sweetness  of  a  horticultural  garden,  but  the  island  must 
have  been  sick  with  fever  this  night,  for  a  mile  at  sea 
the  land-breeze  was  dry,  devitalized,  irritating  the  throat 
and  nostrils. 

There  was  no  moon,  and  the  stars  were  so  faint  in 
the  north  that  the  mass  of  Pelee  was  scarcely  shaped 
against  the  sky.  The  higher  lights  of  the  city  had  a 
reddish  uncertain  glow,  as  if  a  thin  film  of  fog  hung 
between  them  and  the  eye;  but  to  the  south  the  night 
cleared  into  pure  purple  and  unsullied  tropic  stars.  The 
harbor  was  weirdly  hot. 
15 


226  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

Before  her  was  the  city  which  held  the  quest  of 
her  voyaging — Father  Fontanel,  the  holy  man  of  Saint 
Pierre.  .  .  .  Only  a  stranger  can  realize  what  a  pure 
shining  garment  his  actual  flesh  has  become.  To  me 
there  was  healing  in  the  very  approach  of  the  man. 
.  .  .  This  was  the  enduring  fragment  from  the  Charter 
letters;  and  in  that  dreadful  Sunday  night  when  she 
began  her  flight  from  Bellingham,  already  deep  within 
her  mind  Father  Fontanel  was  the  goal.  .  .  .  Paula  set 
out  for  shore  early  the  next  morning.  The  second- 
officer  of  the  Fruitlands  sat  beside  her  in  the  launch. 
She  spoke  of  the  intense  sultriness. 

"  Yes,  Saint  Pierre  is  glowing  like  a  brazier," 
he  said.  "  I  was  ashore  last  night  for  awhile.  The 
people  blame  the  mountain.  Old  Pelee  has  been 
acting  up — showering  the  town  with  ash  every 
little  while  lately.  It's  the  taint  of  sulphur  that  spoils 
the  air." 

She  turned  apprehensively  toward  the  volcano.  La 
Montagne  Pelee,  over  the  red-tiled  roofs  of  Saint  Pierre, 
looked  huge  like  an  Emperor  of  the  Romans.  Paled 
in  the  intense  morning  light,  he  wore  a  delicate  niching 
of  white  cloud  about  his  crown.  They  stepped  ashore 
on  the  Sugar  Landing  where  Paula  found  a  carriage 
to  take  her  to  the  Hotel  des  Palms,  a  rare  old  planta 
tion-house  on  the  Morne  d'Orange,  recently  converted 
for  public  use. 

The  ponies  were  ascending  the  rise  in  Rue  Victor 
Hugo,  at  the  southern  end  of  the  city,  when  Paula  dis 
covered  the  little  Catholic  church  she  had  imaged  for 
so  many  weeks,  Notre  Dame  des  Lourdes,  niched  away 
in  the  crowded  streets  with  a  Quebec-like  quaintness, 


Pelee  Gives  Warning  227 

and  all  the  holier  from  its  close  association  with  the 
lowly  shops.  From  these  walls  had  risen  the  spiritual 
house  of  Father  Fontanel — her  far  bright  beacon.  .  .  . 
The  porteuses,  said  to  be  the  lithest,  hardiest  women  of 
the  Occident,  wore  a  pitiable  look  of  fatigue,  as  they 
came  down  from  the  hill-trails,  steadying  the  baskets 
upon  their  heads.  The  pressure  of  the  heat,  and  the 
dispiriting  atmosphere  revealed  their  effects  in  the  dis 
tended  eyelids  and  colorless,  twisted  lips  of  the  burden- 
bearers. 

The  ponies  at  length  gained  the  eminence  of  the 
Morne  d'Orange,  and  ahead  she  saw  the  broad,  white 
plantation-house — Hotel  des  Palms.  To  the  right  was 
the  dazzling,  turquoise  sea  where  the  Fruitlands  lay 
large  among  the  shipping,  and  near  her  a  private  sea 
going  yacht,  nearly  as  long  and  angelically  white.  The 
broad  verandas  of  the  hotel  were  alluring  with  palms ; 
the  walls  and  portcullises  were  cooled  with  embroider 
ing  vines.  Gardens  flamed  with  poinsettias  and  roses, 
and  a  shaded  grove  of  mango  and  India  trees  at  the 
end  of  the  lawn,  was  edged  with  moon  flowerets  and 
oleanders.  Back  of  the  plantation-house  waved  the  slop 
ing  seas  of  cane;  in  front,  the  Caribbean.  On  the 
south  rose  the  peaks  of  Carbet;  on  the  north,  the 
Monster. 

Paula  had  hardly  left  the  veranda  of  magnificent 
vistas  two  hours  later,  when  the  friendly  captain  of 
the  Fruitlands  approached  with  an  elderly  American, 
of  distinguished  appearance,  whom  he  presented — Mr. 
Peter  Stock,  of  Pittsburg. 

"  Since  you  are  to  leave  us  here,  Miss  Wyndam," 
the  captain  added,  "  I  thought  you  would  be  glad  to 


228  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

know  Mr.  Stock,  who  makes  an  annual  cruise  around 
these  Islands — and  knows  them  better  than  any  Amer 
ican  I've  encountered  yet.  Yonder  is  his  yacht — that 
clipper-built  beauty  just  a  bit  in  from  the  liner." 

"  I've  already  been  admiring  the  yacht,"  Paula 
said,  "  and  wondering  her  name.  There's  something 
Venetian  about  her  dazzling  whiteness  in  the  soft,  deep 
blue." 

"  I  get  it  exactly,  Miss  Wyndam — that  '  mirage  of 
marble '  in  the  Italian  sky.  .  .  .  My  craft  is  the  Sara- 
gossa."  His  eyelids  were  tightened  against  the  light, 
and  the  voice  was  sharp  and  brisk.  His  face,  tropically 
tanned,  contrasted  effectively  with  the  close-cropped 
hair  and  mustache,  lustrous-white  as  his  ship.  .  .  . 
Paula  having  found  the  captain's  courtesy  and  good 
sense  invariable  during  the  voyage,  gladly  accepted  his 
friend,  who  proved  most  interesting  on  the  matter  of 
Pelee. 

"  I've  stayed  here  in  Saint  Pierre  longer  now  than 
usual,"  he  told  her,  pointing  toward  the  mountain,  "  to 
study  the  old  man  yonder.  Pelee,  you  know,  is  identified 
with  Martinique,  much  the  same  as  the  memory  of 
Josephine;  yet  the  people  of  the  city  can't  seem  to 
take  his  present  disorder  seriously.  This  is  cataclysmic 
country.  Hell — I  use  the  word  to  signify  a  geological 
stratum — is  very  close  to  the  surface  down  here.  All 
these  lovely  islands  are  merely  ash-piles  hurled  up  by 
the  great  subterranean  fires.  The  point  is,  Lost  Atlantis 
is  apt  to  stir  any  time  under  the  Caribbean — and  rub 
out  our  very  pretty  panorama." 

"  You  regard  this  as  an  entertainment  worth  wait 
ing  for?"  Paula  asked. 


Pelee  Gives  Warning  229 

The  vaguest  sort  of  a  smile  passed  over  his  eyes 
and  touched  his  lips.  "  Pelee  and  I  are  very  old  friends. 
I  spoke  of  the  volcanic  origin  of  these  islands  in  the 
way  of  suggesting  that  any  seismic  activity  in  the  archi 
pelago — Pelee's  present  internal  complaint,  for  instance, 
— should  be  taken  significantly.  Saint  Pierre  would 
have  been  white  this  morning — except  for  the  heavy 
rain  before  dawn." 

"  You  mean  volcanic  ash  ?  " 

"  Exactly." 

"  That  explains  the  white  scum  I  saw  in  the  gutters, 
driving  through  the  city.  .  .  .  But  it  isn't  altogether  a 
novelty,  is  it,  for  the  mountain  to  behave  this  way  ?  " 

"  From  time  to  time  in  the  past  ten  days,  Miss 
Wyndam,  Pelee  has  had  a  session  of  grumbling." 

"  I  mean  as  a  usual  thing " 

He  turned  to  her  abruptly  and  inquired,  "  Didn't 
you  know  that  there  hasn't  been  a  sound  from  Pelee 
for  twenty  years  before  the  month  of  April  now  end 
ing?" 

This  gave  intimacy  to  the  disorder.  Mr.  Stock  was 
called  away  just  now,  but  after  dinner  that  night  he 
joined  Paula  again  on  the  great  veranda. 

"Ever  been  in  Pittsburg?"  he  asked. 

"  No." 

"  I've  only  to  shut  my  eyes  in  this  second-hand  air 
— to  think  I'm  back  among  the  steel  mills  of  the  lower 
Monongahela." 

"  The  moon  looks  like  beaten  egg,"  Paula  said  with 
a  slight  shiver.  "  They  must  be  suffering  down  in  the 
city.  You're  the  expert  on  Pelee,  Mr.  Stock,  please 
tell  me  more  about  him." 


230  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

He  had  been  regarding  the  new  moon,  low  and  to 
the  left  of  the  Carbet  peaks.  It  had  none  of  the  sharp 
ness  of  outline  peculiar  to  the  tropics,  but  was  blurred 
and  of  an  orange  hue,  instead  of  silvery.  "  It's  the  ash- 
fog  in  the  air  which  has  the  effect  of  a  fine  wire  screen," 
he  explained.  "  We'll  have  a  white  world  to-morrow, 
if  it  doesn't  rain." 

They  turned  to  the  north  where  a  low  rumbling 
was  heard.  It  was  like  distant  thunder,  but  the  horizon 
beyond  Pelee  was  unscathed  by  lightning. 

"  Are  you  really  worried,  Mr.  Stock  ?  " 

"  Why,  it's  as  I  said.  The  fact  that  Pelee  is  acting 
out  of  the  ordinary  is  quite  enough  to  make  any  one 
skeptical  regarding  his  intentions." 

He  discussed  familiarly  certain  of  the  man-eaters 
among  the  mountains  of  the  world — Krakatoa,  Bandai- 
san,  Cotopaxi,  Vesuvius,  yEtna,  calling  them  chronic 
old  ruffians,  whom  Time  doesn't  tame. 

"A  thousand  years  is  nothing  to  them,"  he  added. 
"  They  wait,  still  as  crocodiles,  until  seers  have  built 
their  temples  in  the  high  rifts  and  cities  have  formed 
on  their  flanks.  They  have  tasted  blood,  you  see,  and 
the  madness  comes  back.  Twenty  years  is  only  a 
siesta.  Pelee  is  a  suspect." 

"  I  think  I  should  prefer  to  hear  you  tell  the  treach 
ery  of  volcanoes  outside  of  the  fire-zone,"  she  declared. 
"  It's  like  listening  to  ghost  stories  in  a  haunted  house." 

Pelee  rumbled  again,  and  Paula's  fingers  involun 
tarily  started  toward  his  sleeve.  The  heavy  wooden 
shutters  of  the  great  house  rattled  in  the  windless  night ; 
the  ground  upon  which  they  stood  seemed  to  wince  at  the 
Monster's  pain.  She  was  conscious  of  the  fragrance 


Pelee  Gives  Warning  231 

of  roses  and  magnolia  blooms  above  the  acrid  taint  of 
the  air.  Some  strange  freak  of  the  atmosphere  exerted 
a  pressure  upon  the  flowers,  forcing  a  sudden  expulsion 
of  perfume.  The  young  moon  was  a  formless  blotch 
now  in  the  fouled  sky.  A  sigh  like  the  whimpering 
of  many  sick  children  was  audible  from  the  servants' 
cabins  behind  the  hotel.  .  .  .  Later,  from  her  own  room, 
she  saw  the  double  chain  of  lights  out  in  the  harbor — 
the  Saragassa  pulling  at  her  moorings  among  the  lesser 
craft,  like  a  bright  empress  in  the  midst  of  dusky  maid 
servants;  and  in  the  north  was  Vulcan  struggling  to 
contain  the  fury  of  his  fluids.  She  was  a  little  afraid 
of  Pelee. 

Very  early  abroad,  Paula  set  out  on  her  first  pil 
grimage  to  Notre  Dame  des  Lourdes.  Rain  had  not 
fallen  in  the  night,  and  she  regarded  a  white  world, 
as  Stock  had  promised,  and  the  source  of  the  phenom 
enon  with  the  pastelle  tints  of  early  morning  upon 
his  huge  eastern  slope.  She  had  slept  little  and 
with  her  face  turned  to  the  north.  A  cortege  had 
passed  before  her  in  dream — all  the  destroyers  of 
history,  each  with  a  vivid  individuality,  like  the  types 
of  faces  of  all  nations — the  story  of  each  and  the 
desolation  it  had  made  among  men  and  the  works 
of  men. 

Most  of  them  had  given  warning.  Pelee  was  warn 
ing  now.  His  warning  was  written  upon  the  veins 
of  every  leaf,  painted  upon  the  curve  of  every  blade 
of  grass,  sheeted  evenly-white  upon  the  red  tiles  of 
every  roof.  Gray  dust  blown  by  steam  from  the  burst 
ing  quarries  of  the  mountain  clogged  the  gutters  of 
the  city  and  the  throats  of  men.  It  was  a  moving,  white 


232  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

cloud  in  the  river,  a  chalky  shading  that  marked  the 
highest  reach  of  the  harbor  tide.  It  settled  in  the  hair 
of  the  children,  and  complicated  the  toil  of  bees  in  the 
nectar-cups.  With  league-long  cerements,  and  with  a 
voice  that  caused  to  tremble  his  dwarfed  companions, 
the  hills  and  mornes,  great  Pelee  had  proclaimed  his 
warning  in  the  night. 


PAULA  IS  INVOLVED  IN   THE  RENDING  FORTUNES 

OF    SAINT    PIERRE    AND    THE    PANTHER 

CALLS  WITH  NEW  YORK  MAIL 

FATHER  FONTANEL  was  out  in  the  parish  some 
where.  One  of  the  washer-women  told  her  this,  at  the 
door  of  the  church.  There  were  many  sick  in  the  city 
from  the  great  heat  and  the  burned  air — many  little 
children  sick.  Father  Fontanel  always  sought  the  sick 
in  body;  those  who  were  sick  in  soul,  sought  him. 
...  So  the  woman  of  the  river-banks,  in  her  simple  way, 
augmented  the  story  of  the  priest's  love  for  his  people. 
Paula  rested  for  a  few  moments  in  the  dim  transept. 
Natives  moved  in  and  out  for  a  breath  of  coolness, 
some  pausing  to  kneel  upon  the  worn  tiles  of  the  nave. 
Later  she  walked  among  the  lower  streets  of  the  suffer 
ing  city,  her  heart  filled  with  pity  for  the  throngs  housed 
on  the  low  breathless  water-front.  Except  when  the 
wind  was  straight  from  the  volcano,  the  hotel  on  the 
Morne  d'Orange  was  made  livable  by  the  cool  Trades. 

The  clock  in  the  Hopital  I'Militaire  struck  the  hour 
of  nine.  Paula  had  just  hired  a  carriage  at  the  Sugar 
Landing,  when  her  eye  was  attracted  by  a  small  crowd 
gathering  near  the  water's  edge.  The  black  cassock  of 
a  priest  in  the  midst  drew  her  hurrying  forward.  A 
young  man,  she  thought  at  first,  from  the  frail  shoulders 
and  the  slender  waist.  ...  A  negress  had  fallen  from 
the  heat.  Her  burdens  lay  together  upon  the  shore — 
a  tray  of  cakes  from  her  head,  and  a  naked  babe  from 

233 


234.  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

her  arms.  ...  A  glimpse  at  the  priest's  profile,  and 
she  needed  not  to  be  told  that  this  was  the  holy  man 
of  Saint  Pierre. 

Happiness  lived  in  the  face  above  the  deep  pity 
of  the  moment.  It  was  an  attraction  of  light,  like  the 
brow  of  Mary  in  Murillo's  Immaculate  Conception;  or 
like  that  instant  ethereal  radiance  which  shines  from 
the  face  of  a  little  child  passing  away  without  pain. 
The  years  had  put  an  exquisite  nobility  upon  the  plain 
countenance,  and  the  inner  life  had  added  the  gleam 
of  adoration — "  the  rapture-light  of  holy  vigils  kept." 

Paula  rubbed  her  eyes,  afraid  lest  it  were  not  true; 
afraid  for  a  moment  that  it  was  her  own  meditations 
that  had  wrought  this  miracle  in  clay.  Lingering,  she 
ceased  to  doubt  the  soul's  transfiguration.  .  .  .  Father 
Fontanel  beckoned  a  huge  negro  from  a  lighter  laden 
with  molasses-casks — a  man  of  strength,  bare  to  the 
waist. 

"  Take  the  little  mother  to  my  house,"  he  said. 

A  young  woman  standing  by  was  given  charge  of  the 
ehild.  ..."  Lift  her  gently,  Strong  Man.  The  woman 
will  show  you  the  way  to  the  door."  Then  raising  his 
voice  to  the  crowd,  the  priest  added,  "  You  who  are  well 
— tell  others  that  it  is  yet  cool  in  the  church.  Carry 
the  ailing  ones  there,  and  the  little  children.  Father 

Pelee  will  soon  be  silent  again Does  any  one  happen 

to  know  who  owns  the  beautiful  ship  in  the  harbor  ?  " 

His  French  sentences  seemed  lifted  above  a  per 
vasive  hush  upon  the  shore.  The  native  faces  wore  a 
curious  look  of  adulation;  and  Paula  marvelled  in  that 
they  seemed  unconscious  of  this.  She  was  not  a 
Catholic;  yet  she  uttered  his  name  with  a  thrilling 


The  Panther's  Mail  235 

rapture,  and  with  a  meaning  she  had  never  known 
before : 

"Father  Fontanel " 

He  turned,  instantly  divining  her  inspiration. 

"  Mr.  Stock,  who  owns  the  ship  yonder,  is  staying 
at  the  Hotel  des  Palms,"  she  said  quickly.  "  I  have 
a  carriage  here.  I  was  thinking  that  the  sick  woman 
and  her  child  might  be  taken  to  your  house  in  that. 
Afterward,  when  she  is  cared  for,  you  might  wish  to 
ride  with  me  to  the  Hotel — where  I  also  live." 

"  Why,  yes,  Child — who  are  you  ?  " 

"Just  a  visitor  in  Saint  Pierre — a  woman  from  the 
States." 

Her  arrangement  was  followed,  and  the  negro  went 
back  to  his  work.  Father  Fontanel  joined  her  behind 
the  carriage. 

"  But  you  speak  French  so  well,"  he  observed. 

"  Not  a  few  Americans  do.  I  was  grateful  that  it 
came  back  to  me  here." 

"  Yes,  for  I  do  not  speak  a  word  of  English,"  he 
said  humbly. 

They  walked  for  a  moment  in  silence,  his  head  bowed 
in  thought.  Paula,  glancing  at  him  from  time  to  time, 
studied  the  lines  of  pity  and  tenderness  which  shadowed 
the  eyes.  His  mouth  was  wonderful  to  her,  quite  as 
virgin  to  the  iron  of  self-repression  as  to  the  soft  full 
ness  of  physical  desire.  This  was  the  marvel  of  the 
face — it  was  above  battle.  Here  were  eyes  that  had 
seen  the  Glory  and  retained  an  unearthly  happiness — 
a  face  that  moved  among  the  lowly,  loved,  pitied,  abode 
with  them;  yet  was  beautiful  with  the  spiritual  poise 
of  Overman. 


236  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

"  It  was  strange  that  you  did  not  meet  Lafcadio 
Hearn  when  he  was  here,"  she  said  at  length. 

He  shook  his  head,  asked  the  name  again  and  the 
man's  work. 

"  A  writer  who  tarried  here ;  a  mystic,  too,  strange 
and  strong." 

"  I  know  no  writer  by  that  name — but  how  did  you 
know  that  I  did  not  meet  him,  Child?" 

"  I  was  thinking  he  would  write  about  you  in  his 
book  of  Martinique  sketches — had  he  known." 

He  accepted  the  explanation  innocently.  "  There  was 
a  writer  here — a  young  man  very  dear  to  me — of  whom 
you  reminded  me  at  once " 

"Of  whom  I  reminded  you,  Father?"  she  repeated 
excitedly.  "  You  mean  because  I  spoke  of  another 
writer?" 

"  No,  I  saw  a  resemblance — rather  some  relationship 
of  yours  to  my  wonderful  young  friend.  .  .  .  He  said 
he  would  come  again  to  me." 

She  had  spoken  of  Hearn  in  the  hope  that  Father 
Fontanel  would  be  reminded  of  another  writer  whose 
name  she  did  not  care  to  mention.  His  idea  of  re 
lationship  startled  her  to  the  heart;  yet  when  she  asked 
further,  the  good  man  could  not  explain.  It  had  merely 
been  his  first  thought,  he  said, — as  if  she  had  come 
from  his  friend. 

"  You  thought  much  of  him  then,  Father  Fontanel  ?  " 

He  spoke  with  power  now.  "  A  character  of  terrible 
thirsts,  Child, — such  thirsts  as  I  have  never  known. 
Some  moments  as  he  walked  beside  me,  I  have  felt 
him — like  a  giant  with  wolves  pulling  at  his  thighs, 
and  angels  lifting  his  arms.  Great  strength  of  mind, 


The  Panther's  Mail  S37 

his  presence  endowed  me,  so  that  I  would  have  seen 
more  of  him,  and  more, — but  he  will  come  back!  And 
I  know  that  the  wolves  shall  have  been  slain,  when  he 
comes  again " 

"And  the  angels,  Father?"  she  whispered. 

"  Such  are  the  companions  of  the  Lifted,  my  daughter. 
...  It  is  when  I  meet  one  of  great  conflicts  that  I 
am  suffused  with  the  spirit  of  worship  in  that  I  am 
spared.  God  makes  my  way  so  easy  that  I  must  wonder 
if  I  am  not  one  of  His  very  weak.  It  must  be  so,  for 
my  mornings  and  evenings  are  made  lovely  by  the 
Presence.  My  people  hearken  unto  my  prayers  for 
them;  they  love  me  and  bring  their  little  children  for 
my  blessing — until  I  am  so  happy  that  I  cry  aloud  for 
some  great  work  to  do  that  I  may  strive  heroically  to 
show  my  gratitude  to  God — and  lo,  the  doors  of  my 
work  are  opened,  but  there  are  no  lions  in  the  way ! " 

She  knew  now  all  that  Charter  had  meant.  In  her 
breast  was  a  silent  mystic  stirring — akin  to  that  en 
dearing  miracle  enacted  in  a  conservatory  of  flowers, 
when  the  morning  sun  first  floods  down  upon  the  glass. 
.  .  .  The  initial  doubt  of  her  own  valor  in  suffering 
Selma  Cross  to  shatter  her  Tower,  sprang  into  being 
now.  Father  Fontanel  loved  him,  and  had  looked 
within. 

That  the  priest  had  perceived  a  "  relationship  "  swept 
into  the  woman's  soul.  Low  logic  wrought  from  the 
physical  contacts  of  Selma  Cross  trembled  before  the 
other  immaterial  suggestion — that  Quentin  Charter 
would  come  back  to  Saint  Pierre  triumphantly  com 
panioned,  his  wolves  slain.  .  .  .  She  forgot  nothing  of 
the  actress's  point  of  view;  nor  that  the  Westerner  did 


238  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

not  reach  her  floor  in  the  Zoroaster  and  encounter  an 
old  attraction  by  accident.  He  was  not  one  to  force 
his  way  there,  if  the  man  at  the  elevator  told  him  Miss 
Linster  was  not  in.  All  of  these  things  which  had 
driven  her  to  action  were  still  inexplicable,  but  final 
condemnation  was  gone  from  the  evidence — as  the  stone 
rolled  away. 

Bellingham?  .  .  .  The  mystery  now,  as  she  stood 
within  this  radiant  aura,  was  that  any  point  of  his  desire 
could  ever  have  found  lodgment  within.  Her  sense 
of  protection  at  this  moment  was  absolute.  She  had 
done  well  to  come  here.  .  .  .  Again  swept  into  mind, 
Quentin  Charter's  silent  part  in  saving  her  from  the 
Destroyer — the  book,  the  letter,  the  voice;  even  to  this 
sanctuary  she  had  come  through  a  sentence  from  him. 
For  a  moment  the  old  master-romance  shone  glorious 
again — like  a  lone,  valiant  star  glimpsed  in  the  rift 
of  storm-hurled  clouds. 

They  had  reached  the  low  street  door  of  Father 
Fontanel's  house,  a  wing  of  the  church.  A  native 
doctor  had  been  summoned  and  helped  to  carry  the 
woman  in.  She  was  revived  presently. 

"  Father,"  Paula  said,  remembering  the  words  of 
the  washer-woman,  as  they  emerged  into  the  street, 
"  when  one  is  sick  of  soul — does  one  knock  here  ?  " 

"  One  does  not  knock,  but  enters  straightway,"  he 
answered.  "  The  door  is  never  locked.  .  .  .  But  you  look 
very  happy,  my  daughter." 

"  I  am  happy,"  she  answered. 

They  drove  together  to  the  Hotel  des  Palms.  Paula 
did  not  ask,  though  she  had  something  of  an  idea  re- 


The  Panther's  Mail  239 

garding  the  priest's  purpose  in  asking  for  Peter  Stock. 
Though  she  had  formed  a  very  high  opinion  of  the 
American,  it  occurred  to  her  that  he  would  hardly  ap 
prove  of  any  one  directing  arteries  of  philanthropy  to  his 
hand.  He  had  been  one  of  those  ruffian  giants  of  the 
elder  school  of  finance  who  began  with  the  axe  and 
the  plow ;  whose  health,  character  and  ethics  had  been 
wrought  upon  the  anvil  of  privation;  whose  culture 
began  in  middle  life,  and,  being  hard-earned,  was  em 
inent  in  the  foreground  of  mind — austere  and  inelastic, 
this  culture,  yet  solidly  founded.  Stock  was  rich  and 
loved  to  give,  but  was  rather  ashamed  of  it.  Paula 
could  imagine  him  saying,  "  I  hate  the  whining  of  the 
strong."  For  twenty  years  since  his  retirement,  he  had 
voyaged  about  the  world,  learning  to  love  beautiful 
things,  and  giving  possibly  many  small  fortunes  away; 
yet  he  much  would  have  preferred  to  acknowledge  that 
he  had  knocked  down  a  brute  than  endowed  an  asylum. 
Mr.  Stock  was  firm  in  opinion,  dutiful  in  appreciation 
for  the  fine.  His  sayings  were  strongly  savored,  re 
liant  with  facts;  his  every  thought  was  the  result  of 
a  direct  physical  process  of  mind, — a  mind  athletic  to 
grip  the  tangible,  but  which  had  not  yet  contracted  for 
its  spiritual  endowment.  In  a  word  a  splendid  type  of 
American  with  which  to  blend  an  ardently  artistic  tem 
perament.  .  .  .  Paula,  holding  something  of  this  con 
ception  of  the  capitalist,  became  eager  to  see  what  ad 
justment  could  follow  a  meeting  with  his  complement 
in  characteristic  qualities — her  revered  mystic.  Mr. 
Stock  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  mango  grove.  Leav 
ing  Father  Fontanel  on  the  veranda,  she  joined  the 
American. 


240  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

"  I  found  a  holy  man  down  on  the  water-front, 
mildly  inquiring  who  owned  the  Saragassa/'  she  said 
laughingly,  "  and  asked  him  to  share  my  carriage.  He 
has  not  told  me  what  he  wants,  but  he's  a  very  wonder 
ful  priest." 

She  noted  the  instant  contraction  of  his  brows, 
and  shrank  inwardly  at  the  hard,  rapid  tone,  with  which 
he  darted  the  question: 

"Are  you  a  Catholic?" 

"  No,  Mr.  Stock." 

"  Yes.  I'll  see  him."  It  was  as  if  he  were  talking 
to  his  secretary,  but  Paula  liked  him  too  well  to  mind. 
They  drew  near  the  veranda. 

..."  Well,  sir,  what  is  it  ?  "  he  spoke  brusquely, 
and  in  French,  studying  the  priest's  upturned  face.  Mr. 
Stock  believed  he  knew  faces.  Except  for  the  years 
and  the  calling,  he  would  have  decided  that  Father 
Fontanel  was  rather  too  meek  and  feminine — at  first 
glance. 

"  What  I  wished  to  ask  depends  upon  your  being 
here  for  a  day  or  two,"  the  priest  said  readily.  "  Father 
Pelee's  hot  breath  is  killing  our  children  in  the  lower 
quarters  of  the  city,  and  many  of  the  poor  women  are 
suffering.  The  ship  out  in  the  harbor  looked  to  me 
like  a  good  angel  with  folded  wings,  as  I  walked  the 
water-front  this  morning.  I  thought  you  would  be  glad 
to  let  me  send  some  mothers  and  babies — to  breathe 
the  good  air  of  the  offing.  A  day,  or  a  night  and  a  day, 
may  save  lives." 

Paula  had  felt  a  proprietary  interest  in  Father  Fon- 
tanel's  mission,  no  matter  what  it  proved  to  be.  She 
was  pleased  beyond  measure  to  find  that  he  was  en- 


The  Panther's  Mail  241 

tirely  incapable  of  awe  or  cringing,  before  a  man  of 
stern  and  distinguished  mien  and  of  such  commanding 
dignity.  Moreover,  he  stated  the  favor  quite  as  if  it 
were  an  advantage  which  the  American  had  not  thought 
of  for  himself.  So  interested  was  she  in  the  priest's 
utterance,  that  when  her  eyes  turned  from  his  face 
to  Stock's — the  alteration  there  amazed  her.  And  like 
the  natives  of  the  water-front,  the  American  did  not  seem 
to  be  aware  of  the  benign  influence.  He  had  followed 
the  French  sentences  intently  at  first,  but  caught  the 
whole  idea  before  the  priest  was  finished. 

"Did  you  know  I  wasn't  a  Catholic?"  he  asked. 
The  question  apparently  had  been  in  his  mind  before 
he  felt  himself  responding  to  the  appeal. 

"  No,"  Father  Fontanel  answered  sincerely.  "  The 
truth  is,  it  didn't  occur  to  me  whether  you  were  or 
not." 

"  Quite  right,"  Mr.  Stock  said  quickly.  "  It  has  no 
place,  whatever,  so  long  as  you  don't  think  so.  You've 
got  a  good  idea.  I'll  be  here  for  a  day  or  two.  You'll 
need  money  to  hire  boats ;  then  my  first  officer  will  have 
to  be  informed.  My  launch  is  at  the  Sugar  Landing. 
.  .  .  On  second  thought,  I'll  go  back  down-town  with 
you.  .  .  .  Miss  Wyndam — later  in  the  day — a  chat  with 
you?" 

"  Of  course." 

Father  Fontanel  turned,  thanking  her  with  a  smile. 
"  And  the  name  is  '  Wyndam,'  "  he  added.  "  I  had  not 
heard  it  before." 

Paula  watched  them  walking  down  the  driveway 
to  the  carriage  which  she  had  retained  for  Father  Fon 
tanel.  The  inclination  was  full-formed  to  seek  the 
16 


242  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

solitude  of  her  room  and  there  review  the  whole  de 
lightful  matter.  .  .  .  She  was  glad  that  the  priest  had 
not  asked  her  name,  for  under  his  eyes — she  could  not 
have  answered  "  Wyndam." 

It  was  not  until  the  following  evening,  after  a  day 
of  actual  physical  suffering  from  Pelee  and  the  heat, 
even  on  the  Morne,  that  she  had  the  promised  talk  with 
Peter  Stock. 

"  I  like  your  priest,"  he  said.  "  He  works  like  a 
man,  and  he  hasn't  got  a  crook  in  his  back.  What  he 
wants  he  seems  to  get.  I  have  sent  over  a  hundred 
natives  out  yonder  on  the  Saragassa,  negotiated  for  the 
town's  whole  available  supply  of  fresh  milk,  and  Laird, 
my  chief  officer,  is  giving  the  party  a  little  cruise  to 
night " 

"  Do  you  know — I  think  it  is  splendid  ?  "  she  ex 
claimed. 

"What?" 

"  The  work — your  ship  filled  with  gasping  unfortu 
nates  from  the  city !  " 

"  Do  you  happen  to  know  of  any  reason  why  an 
idle  ship  should  not  be  used  for  some  such  purpose  ?  " 

"  None,  whatever,"  she  said  demurely,  quite  willing 
that  he  should  adjust  the  matter  to  suit  himself.  His 
touchiness  upon  the  subject  of  his  own  benefactions 
reminded  her  pleasurably  of  Reifferscheid.  Her  in 
ward  joy  was  to  study  in  Peter  Stock  the  unacknowl 
edged  influence  of  Father  Fontanel — or  was  it  an  un 
conscious  influence?  The  American's  further  activities 
unfolded : 

"  By  the  way,  have  you  been  reading  the  French 
paper  here — Les  Colonies?" 


The  Panther's  Mail  243 

Paula  had  not. 

"  The  editor,  M.  Mondet,  is  the  smug  authority  for 
a  statement  yesterday  that  Saint  Pierre  is  in  absolutely 
no  danger  from  the  mountain.  Now,  of  course,  this 
may  be  true,  but  he  doesn't  know  it — unless  he  should 
have  the  Dealer  in  Destiny  on  the  wire.  There  is  always 
a  big  enough  percentage  of  foolish  virgins  in  a  city, 
so  it  peeved  me  to  find  one  in  the  sole  editorial  capacity. 
My  first  impulse  was  to  calk  up  the  throat  of  M.  Mondet 
with  several  sheets  of  his  abominable  assurances.  This 
I  restrained,  but  nevertheless  I  called  upon  him  to-day. 
His  next  issue  appears  day  after  to-morrow,  and  my 
idea  is  for  him  to  print  a  vigorous  warning  against 
Pelee.  Why,  he  could  clear  the  town  of  ten  thousand 
people  for  a  few  days — until  the  weather  settles.  In 
cidentally,  if  the  mountain  took  on  a  sudden  destroying 
streak — just  see  what  he  would  have  done !  Some  glory 
in  saving  lives  on  that  scale." 

"  Vine  leaves,  indeed,"  said  Paula.  "  Did  M.  Mondet 
tell  you  he  would  print  this  warning  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly.  He  pointed  out  the  cost  of  detaching 
a  third  of  the  city's  inhabitants.  I  told  him  how  this 
cost  could  be  brought  down  within  reason,  and  showed 
myself  not  unwilling  to  back  the  exodus.  I'm  a  practical 
man,  Miss  Wyndam,  and  these  things  look  bigger  than 
they  really  are.  But  you  never  can  tell  what  a  tubby 
little  Frenchman  will  do.  It's  atrocious  for  a  man 
in  his  position  to  say  that  a  volcano  won't  volcane — 
sorely  tempting  to  old  Father  Pelee — a  sort  of  challenge. 
It  would  be  bad  enough  to  play  Pilate  and  wash  his 
hands  of  the  city's  danger — but  to  be  a  white-lipped, 
kissing  Judas  at  the  last  supper  of  Saint  Pierre " 


244  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

"  Did  you  tell  him  that  ?  "  Paula  asked  hastily. 

"  Not  in  those  words,  Miss  Wyndam,  but  he  seemed 
to  be  a  bit  afraid  of  me — kept  watching  my  hands  and 
pulling  at  his  cravat.  When  he  finally  showed  me  to 
the  door,  his  was  the  delicacy  of  one  who  handles  dyna 
mite.  At  all  events,  I'm  waiting  for  his  next  issue  to 
see  if  my  call  '  took ! '  I  really  do  wish  that  a  lot  of  these 
people  would  forget  their  clothes,  chickens,  coals,  coins, 
and  all  such,  for  a  few  days  and  camp  somewhere  be 
tween  here  and  Fort  de  France." 

Paula  was  thrilled  by  the  American's  zeal.  He  was 
not  content,  now  that  he  had  begun,  to  deal  with  boat 
loads,  but  wanted  to  stir  the  city.  She  would  have  given 
much  to  know  the  exact  part  of  Father  Fontanel  in 
this  rousing  ardor  of  her  new  friend.  "  And  you  really 
think  Pelee  may  not  hold  out?"  she  asked. 

"  I'm  not  a  monomaniac — at  least,  not  yet,"  he  re 
plied,  and  his  voice  suggested  a  certain  pent  savagery 
in  his  brain.  "  Call  it  an  experiment  that  I'm  sufficiently 
interested  in  to  finance.  The  ways  of  volcanoes  are  past 
the  previsions  of  men.  I'd  like  to  get  a  lot  of  folks 
out  of  the  fire-zone,  until  Pelee  is  cool — or  a  billion 
tons  lighter.  This  ordered-up-to-Nineveh  business  is 
out  of  my  line,  but  it's  absorbing.  I  don't  say  that 
Pelee  will  blow  his  head  off  this  week  or  this  millennium, 
but  I  do  say  that  there  are  vaults  of  explosives  in  that 
monster,  the  smallest  of  which  could  make  this  city 
look  like  a  leper's  corpse  upon  the  beach.  I  say  that 
the  internal  fires  are  burning  high ;  that  they're  already 
playing  about  the  vital  cap;  that  Pelee  has  already 
sprung  several  leaks,  and  that  the  same  force  which 
lifted  this  cheerful  archipelago  from  the  depths  of  the 


The  Panther's  Mail  245 

sea  is  pressing  against  the  craters  at  this  moment.  I 
say  that  Vesuvius  warned  before  he  broke;  that  Kraka- 
toa  warned  and  then  struck;  that  down  the  ages  these 
safety  valves  scattered  over  the  face  of  the  earth  have 
mercifully  joggled  before  giving  way;  that  Pelee  is 
joggling  now." 

"  If  M.  Mondet  would  write  juSt  that,"  Paula  said 
softly,  "  I  think  you  would  have  your  exodus." 

She  sought  her  room  shortly  afterward.  Pelee's 
moods  had  been  variable  that  day.  The  north  had  been 
obscured  by  a  fresh  fog  in  the  afternoon.  The  ash  and 
sulphur  fumes,  cruel  to  the  lungs  on  the  breezy  Morne, 
six  miles  from  the  craters,  gave  her  an  fntimation  of 
the  anguish  of  the  people  in  the  intervening  depression 
where  the  city  lay.  The  twilight  had  brought  ease 
again  and  a  ten-minute  shower,  so  there  was  real  fresh 
ness  in  the  early  evening.  Rippling  waves  of  merriment 
reached  her  from  the  darky  quarters,  as  the  young  men 
from  the  fields  came  forth  to  bathe  in  the  sea.  Never 
before  was  the  volatile  tropic  soul  so  strongly  evidenced 
for  her  understanding,  as  in  that  glad  hour  of  reaction — 
simple  hearts  to  glow  at  little  things,  whose  swift 
tragedies  come  and  go  like  blighting  winds  which,  though 
they  may  slay,  leave  no  wound;  instant  to  gladden  in 
the  groves  of  serenity,  when  a  black  cloud  has  blown  by. 

Her  mind  was  sleepless.  .  .  .  Once,  long  after  mid 
night,  when  she  fell  into  a  doze,  it  was  only  to  be 
awakened  by  a  dream  of  a  garrote  upon  her  throat. 
The  ash  had  thickened  again,  and  the  air  was  acrid. 
The  hours  seemed  to  fall  asleep  in  passing.  From  her 
balcony  she  peered  into  the  dead-black  of  the  North 
where  Pelee  rumbled  at  intervals.  Back  in  the  south, 


246  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

the  blurred  moon  impended  with  an  evil  light.  A  faint 
wailing  of  children  reached  her  from  the  servants'  cab 
ins.  The  sense  of  isolation  was  dreadful  for  a  moment. 
It  seemed  to  rest  entirely  with  her  that  time  passed  at 
all;  that  she  must  grapple  with  each  moment  and  fight 
it  back  into  the  past.  .  .  . 

The  Panther,  a  fast  ship  with  New  York  mail, 
was  due  to  call  at  Saint  Pierre  within  forty-eight  hours. 
Paula,  to  hasten  the  passing  of  time,  determined  to  take 
the  little  steamer  over  to  Fort  de  France  for  a  day, 
if  morning  ever  came.  She  must  have  slept  an  hour 
after  this  decision,  for  she  was  unconscious  of  the  tran 
sition  from  darkness  to  the  parched  and  brilliant  dawn 
which  roused  her  tired  eyes.  The  glass  showed  her  a 
pallid  face,  darkly-lined. 

The  blinding  light  from  the  East  changed  the  dew 
to  steam  before  it  touched  the  ground.  The  more  deli 
cate  blossoms  in  the  gardens  withered  in  that  hectic 
burning  before  the  sun  was  an  hour  high.  Driving 
down  through  the  city  to  the  Landing  she  found  the  Rue 
Victor  Hugo  almost  deserted.  The  porteuses  were  gone 
from  the  highway ;  all  doors  were  tightly  shut,  strangely 
marring  the  tropical  effect;  broken  window-panes  were 
stuffed  with  cloths  to  keep  out  the  vitiated  air.  The 
tough  little  island  mules  (many  in  their  panniers  with 
no  one  leading),  scarcely  moved,  and  hugged  the  east 
walls  for  shade.  From  the  by-ways  she  imagined  the 
smell  of  death. 

"  Hottest  morning  Saint  Pierre  has  known  for 
years,"  the  captain  said,  as  she  boarded  the  little 
steamer  which  hurriedly  put  off.  .  .  .  Night  had  fallen 


The  Panther's  Mail  247 

(and  there  had  been  little  to  break  the  misery  of  Saint 
Pierre  that  day),  when  she  reached  the  Hotel  once 
more.  She  retired  immediately  after  dinner  to  take 
advantage  of  a  fresh,  south  wind  which  came  with  the 
dark  and  promised  to  make  sleep  possible.  .  .  .  Rumb 
lings  from  the  volcano  awoke  her  just  before  dawn. 
Glancing  out  over  the  harbor,  she  perceived  the  lights 
of  a  big  liner  lying  near  the  Saragassa.  There  was  no 
sleep  after  this  discovery,  since  she  felt  this  must  be 
the  Panther  with  letters  from  New  York.  According 
to  her  schedule,  the  steamer  had  cleared  from  Man 
hattan  a  full  week  after  the  Fruitlands.  Paula  break 
fasted  early,  and  inquired  at  the  desk  how  soon  the 
mails  would  be  distributed. 

"  Did  you  arrange  at  the  post-office  to  have  your 
mail  sent  care  of  the  Hotel  ?  "  the  clerk  inquired. 

"  Yes." 

"  The  bags  should  be  here  very  shortly,  Miss  Wynd- 
a'm.  The  Panther  anchored  at  two  this  morning." 

"  Please  send  any  letters  for  me  to  my  room  at 
once,"  she  told  him,  and  went  there  to  wait,  so  that 
she  might  be  alone  to  read.  .  .  .  Madame  Nestor's  writ 
ing  was  upon  one  envelope,  and  Reifferscheid's  upon 
another,  a  large  one,  which  contained  mail  sent  to  Paula 
Linster  in  his  care  to  be  forwarded  to  Laura  Wyndam, 
among  them  letters  from  Selma  Cross  and  Quentin 
Charter,  as  well  as  a  note  from  the  editor  himself. 

The  latter  she  read  first,  since  the  pages  were  loose 
in  the  big  envelope.  It  was  a  joyous,  cheery  message, 
containing  a  humorous  account  of  those  who  called  to 
inquire  about  her,  a  bit  of  the  gospel  of  work  and  a  hope 
for  her  health — the  whole,  brief,  fine  and  tonic — like 


248  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

her  friend.  .  .  .  Tearing  open  the   Charter  letter,   she 
fell  into  a  vortex  of  emotions: 

This  is  my  fifth  day  in  New  York,  dear  Skylark,  and  I 
have  ceased  trying  to  find  you.  It  was  not  to  trouble  or 
frighten  you  that  I  searched,  but  because  I  think  if  you  under 
stood  entirely,  you  would  not  hide  from  me.  I  hope  Miss  Cross 
has  had  better  success  than  I  in  learning  your  whereabouts, 
because  she  has  changed  certain  views  regarding  me.  If  you 
shared  with  her  those  former  views,  it  is  indeed  important 
that  you  learn  the  truth,  though  it  is  not  for  me  to  put  such 
things  in  a  letter.  I  have  not  seen  Miss  Cross  since  that  first 
night;  nor  have  I  had  the  heart  yet  to  see  The  Thing.  Reiffer- 
scheid  tells  me  that  you  may  be  out  of  the  city  for  two  or 
three  months.  I  counted  him  a  very  good  friend  of  mine,  but 
he  treats  me  now  with  a  peculiar  aversion,  such  as  I  should 
consider  proper  for  one  to  hold  toward  a  wife-beater.  It  is 
all  very  strange  and  subtly  terrifying — this  ordeal  for  which 
I  have  been  prepared.  I  see  now  that  I  needed  the  three  full 
years  of  training.  What  I  cannot  quite  adjust  yet  is  that  I 
should  have  made  you  suffer.  My  every  thought  blessed  you. 
My  thoughts  bless  you  to-night — sweet  gift  of  the  world  to  me. 

Live  in  the  sun  and  rest,  Skylark;  put  away  all  shadowy 
complications — and  you  will  bring  back  a  splendid  store  of 
energy  for  the  tenser  New  York  life.  I  could  not  have  written 
so  calmly  a  few  days  ago,  for  to  have  you  think  evil  of  me 
drove  straight  and  swiftly  to  the  very  centres  of  sanity — but 
I  have  won  back  through  thoughts  of  you,  a  noon-day  courage ; 
and  it  has  come  to  me  that  our  truer  relation  is  but  beginning. 

I  have  not  yet  the  fibre  for  work;  New  York  is  empty 
without  you,  as  my  garret  would  be  without  your  singing.  I 
shall  go  away  somewhere  for  a  little,  leaving  my  itinerary — 
when  I  decide  upon  it — at  the  Granville.  Some  time  soon  I 
shall  hear  from  you.  All  shall  be  restored — even  serenity  to 
your  beautiful  spirit.  I  only  suffer  now  in  that  it  proved 
business  of  mine  to  bring  you  agony.  I  wanted  to  make  you 
glad  through  and  through ;  to  lift  your  spirit,  not  to  weight  it 
down ;  to  make  you  wiser,  happier, — to  keep  you  winged.  This, 
as  I  know  the  truth,  has  been  my  constant  outbreathing  to 
you.  .  .  . 

My  window  at  the   Granville  faces  the  East— the   East  to 


The  Panther's  Mail  249 

which  I  have  come — yet  from  the  old  ways,  I  still  look  to 
the  East  for  you.  New  York  has  found  her  Spring — a  warm, 
almost  vernal  night,  this,  and  I  smell  the  sea.  .  .  .  Two  big, 
gray  dusty  moths  are  fluttering  at  the  glass — softly,  eagerly  to 
get  at  the  light — as  if  they  knew  best  .  .  .  They  have  found 
the  way  in,  for  the  window  was  partly  open,  and  have  burned 
their  wings  at  the  electric  bulb.  The  analogy  is  inevitable 
.  .  .  but  you  would  not  be  hurt,  for  flame  would  meet  flame. 
...  I  turned  off  the  light  a  moment  and  remembered  that  you 
have  already  been  hurt,  but  that  was  rather  because  flame  was 
not  restored  by  flame.  .  .  .  One  moth  has  gone  away.  The 
other  has  curled  up  on  my  table  like  a  faded  cotton  umbrella. 
So  many  murder  the  soul  this  way  in  the  pursuit  of  dead 
intellectual  brilliance.  .  .  . 

Bless  your  warm  heart  that  brims  with  singing — singing 
which  I  must  hear  again.  .  .  .  An  old  sensation  comes  to  me 
now  as  I  cease  to  write.  My  garret  always  used  to  grow 
empty  and  heartless — as  I  closed  and  sealed  a  letter  to  you.  .  .  . 
You  are  radiant  in  the  heart  of  Quentin  Charter. 

She  was  unconscious  of  passing  time,  until  her  eye 
was  attracted  by  the  heavy  handwriting  of  Selma  Cross 
upon  a  Herriot  Theatre  envelope.  This  communication 
was  an  attempt  to  clear  herself  with  Paula,  whose 
intrinsic  clarity  had  always  attracted  truth  from  the 
actress;  also  it  seemed  to  contain  a  struggle  to  adjust 
herself,  when  once  she  began  to  write,  to  the  garment 
of  nettles  she  had  woven  from  mixed  motives. 

I  am  almost  frantic  searching  for  you..  I  knew  you  were 
in  the  hall  that  night,  because  I  saw  your  hat  as  you  started 
to  walk  down.  Charter  was  saying  things  about  the  stage  that 
made  me  want  to  shut  the  door,  but  I  must  tell  you  why  I 
made  him  come  there.  When  it  occurred  to  me  how  horribly 
you  had  been  hurt  by  my  disclosures  regarding  him,  the  thought 
drove  home  that  there  might  be  some  mistake^  You  would 
not  see  him,  so  I  sent  a  telephone-message  to  the  Granville  for 
him  to  call.  He,  of  course^  thought  the  message  from  you. 
Indeed,  he  would  not  have  come  otherwise.  He  avoided  me 


250  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

before,  and  that  night,  he  certainly  would  have  seen  no  one 
but  you.  Our  elevator-man  at  the  Zoroaster  had  orders  from 
me  to  show  a  gentleman  inquiring  for  you  about  seven,  to  my 
apartment. 

My  thought  was,  to  learn  if  by  any  possibility  I  was  wrong 
in  what  I  had  told  you.  I  even  thought  I  might  call  you  in 
that  night.  Anyway,  you  would  be  just  across  the  hall — to 
hear  at  once  any  good  word.  He  thought  at  first  that  it  was 
a  trap  that  we  had  arranged — that  you  were  somewhere  in  the 
apartment  listening1.  Oh,  I'm  all  in  a  welter  of  words — there 
is  so  much,  and  your  big  brute  of  an  editor  would  give  me 
no  help.  The  woman  in  your  rooms  is  quite  as  blank  about 
you.  I  never  beat  so  helplessly  against  a  wall. 

But  here's  the  truth:  Charter  did  not  talk  about  our 
relations.  Villiers  had  a  spy  watching  all  our  movements — 
and  was  thus  informed.  Then,  when  he  got  back,  Villiers  told 
me  that  Charter  had  talked  to  men — all  the  things  that  his 
spy  had  learned.  He  did  this  to  make  me  hate  Charter.  This 
is  the  real  truth.  Charter  seems  to  have  become  a  monk  in 
the  three  years.  This  is  not  so  pleasant  to  write  as  it  will  be 
for  you  to  read,  but  he  would  not  even  mention  your  name 
in  my  room !  I  want  to  say  that  if  it  is  not  you — some  woman 
has  the  new  Quentin  Charter  heart  and  soul.  I  could  have 
done  the  thing  better,  but  the  dramatic  possibility  of  calling 
him  to  the  Zoroaster  blinded  my  judgment,  and  what  a  hideous 
farce  it  turned  out!  But  you  have  the  truth,  and  I,  my  lesson. 
Please  forgive  your  fond  old  neighbor — who  wasn't  started  out 
with  all  the  breeding  in  the  world,  but  who  meant  to  be  square 
with  you. 

Paula  felt  that  she  could  go  down  into  the  tortured 
city  at  this  moment  with  healing  for  every  woe.  She 
paced  the  room,  and  with  outstretched  arms,  poured 
forth  an  ecstasy  of  gratitude  for  his  sake;  for  the 
restoration  of  her  Tower;  for  this  new  and  glorious 
meaning  of  her  womanhood.  The  thought  of  returning 
to  New  York  by  the  first  boat  occurred;  and  the 
advisability  of  cabling  Quentin  Charter  for  his  ease  of 
mind.  ...  At  all  events,  the  time  of  the  next  steamer's 


The  Panther's  Mail  251 

leaving  for  New  York  must  be  ascertained  at  once.  She 
was  putting  on  her  hat,  when  Madame  Nestor's ,  un 
opened  letter  checked  her  precipitation.  The  first  line 
brought  back  old  fears: 

I'm  afraid  I  have  betrayed  you,  my  beloved  Paula.  It  is 
hard  that  my  poor  life  should  be  capable  of  this.  Less  than 
two  hours  ago,  as  I  was  busied  about  the  apartment,  the  bell 
rang  and  I  answered.  At  the  door  stood  Bellingham.  He 
caught  my  eyes  and  held  them.  I  remember  that  instant,  the 
suffocation, — the  desperate  but  vain  struggle  to  keep  my  self- 
control.  Alas,  he  had  subjected  my  will  too  thoroughly  long 
ago.  Almost  instantly,  I  succumbed  to  the  old  mastery.  .  .  . 
When  his  control  was  lifted,  I  was  still  standing  by  the  opened 
door,  but  he  was  gone.  The  elevator  was  at  the  ground-floor. 
He  must  have  passed  by  me  and  into  the  apartment,  for  one 
of  your  photographs  was  gone.  I  don't  think  he  came  for  that, 
though  of  course  it  will  help  him  to  concentratd  I  cannot 
tell  what  else  happened  in  the  interval,  but  my  dreadful  fear 
is  that  he  made  me  divulge  your  place  of  refuge.  What  other 
purpose  could  he  have?  It  is  almost  unbearable  that  I  should 
be  forced  to  tell  him — when  I  love  you  so — if,  indeed,  that  has 
come  to  pass.  .  .  .  He  has  altered  terribly  since  the  accident.  I 
think  he  has  lost  certain  of  his  powers — that  his  thwarted  desire 
is  murdering  him.  He  did  not  formerly  need  a  photograph  to 
concentrate.  His  eyes  burned  into  mine  like  a  wolf's.  I  know, 
even  in  my  sorrow,  that  yours  is  to  be  the  victory.  He  is 
breaking  up  or  he  would  not  come  to  you.  .  .  . 

For  a  moment  or  two  Paula  was  conscious  of  Pelee, 
and  the  gray  menace  that  charged  the  burnt-out  air. 
Then  came  the  thought  of  Father  Fontanel  and  the 
door  that  was  never  locked;  and  presently  her  new  joy 
returned  with  ever-rising  vibration — until  the  long- 
abated  powers  of  her  life  were  fully  vitalized  again. 
.  .  .  She  was  wondering,  as  she  stepped  into  the  hall 
and  turned  the  key  in  her  door,  if  she  would  be  consid- 


252  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

ered  rather  tumultuous  in  cabling  Charter.  ...  At  the 
stairway,  she  halted,  fearing  at  first  some  new  mental 
seizure;  then  every  faculty  furiously-nerved,  she  listened 
at  the  balustrade  for  the  repetition  of  a  voice  that  an 
instant  before  had  thrilled  her  to  the  soul.  .  .  .  There 
had  only  been  a  sentence  or  two  from  the  Voice.  Peter 
Stock  was  now  replying : 

"  He's  a  man-servant  of  the  devil,  this  pudgy  editor," 
he  said  striding  up  and  down  the  lower  hall  in  his 
rage.  "  A  few  days  ago  I  called  upon  him,  and  in  sweet 
modesty  and  limping  French  explained  the  proper  policy 
for  him  to  take  about  this  volcano.  To-day  he  devotes 
a  half-column  of  insufferable  humor  to  my  force  of 
character  and  alarmist  views.  Oh,  the  flakiness  of  the 
French  mind!  M.  Mondet  certainly  fascinates  me.  I 
shall  have  to  call  upon  him  again." 

Paula  heard  the  low  laugh  of  the  other  and  the 
words : 

"  Let's  sit  down,  Mr.  Stock.  I  want  to  hear  all 
about  the  editor  and  the  mountain.  I  was  getting  to 
sea  somewhere,  when  the  New  York  papers  ran  a  line 
about  Pelee's  activity.  It  started  luring  memories,  and 
I  berthed  at  once  for  Saint  Pierre.  It  was  mighty  good 
to  see  the  Saragassa  lying  familiarly  in  the  road 
stead " 

Trailing  her  fingers  along  the  wall  to  steady  herself, 
Paula  made  her  way  back  to  the  door  of  her  room,  which 
she  fumblingly  unlocked. 


NINETEENTH  CHAPTER 

QUENTIN  CHARTER  IS    ATTRACTED  BY   THE 

TRAVAIL  OF  PELEE,  AND  ENCOUNTERS 

A  QUEER  FELLOW- VOYAGER 

CHARTER  did  not  find  Paula  Linster  in  the  week  of 
New  York  that  followed  his  call  at  the  Zoroaster,  but 
he  found  Quentin  Charter.  The  first  three  or  four  days 
were  rather  intense  in  a  psychological  way.  The  old 
vibrations  of  New  York  invariably  contained  for  him  a 
destructive  principle,  as  Paris  held  for  Dr.  Duprez.  The 
furious  consumption  of  nerve-tissue  during  the  first 
evening  after  his  arrival ;  a  renewal  of  desires  operating 
subconsciously,  and  in  no  small  part  through  the  passion 
of  Selma  Cross;  his  last  struggle,  both  subtle  and 
furious,  with  his  own  stimulus-craving  temperament, 
and  the  desolation  of  the  true  romance — combined, 
among  other  things,  worthily  to  test  the  growth  of  his 
spirit.  .  .  .  The  thought  that  Skylark  had  fallen  into 
the  hands  of  Selma  Cross,  and  had  been  given  that 
ugly  estimate  of  him  which  the  actress  held  before  his 
call,  as  he  expressed  it  in  his  letter,  "  drove  straight 
and  swiftly  to  the  very  centres  of  sanity."  Over  this, 
was  a  ghastly,  whimpering  thing  that  would  not  be 
immured — the  effect  of  which,  of  all  assailants  to  rising 
hope,  was  most  scarifying:  That  Paula  Linster  had 
suffered  herself  to  listen  to  those  old  horrors,  and  had 
permitted  him  to  be  called  to  the  bar  before  Selma 
Cross.  No  matter  how  he  handled  this,  it  held  a 
fundamental  lesion  in  the  Skylark-fineness. 

253 


254  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

Charter  whipped  his  wastrel  tendencies  one  by  one 
until  on  the  fifth  day  his  resistance  hardened,  and  the 
brute  within  him  was  crippled  from  beating  against  it. 
His  letter  to  Paula  Linster  was  a  triumph  of  repression. 
Probably  one  out  of  six  of  the  thoughts  that  came  to 
.him  were  given  expression.  He  felt  that  he  had  made 
of  Selma  Cross  an  implacable  enemy,  and  was  pur 
sued  by  the  haunting  dread  (if,  indeed,  the  conversa 
tion  had  not  been  overheard),  that  she  might  think 
better  about  "  squaring "  him.  It  was  on  this  fifth 
day  that  for  a  moment  the  mystic  attraction  returned 
to  his  consciousness,  and  he  heard  the  old  singing.  This 
was  the  first  reward  for  a  chastened  spirit.  Again  and 
again — though  never  consciously  to  be  lured  or  forced 
— the  vision,  unhurt,  undiminished,  returned  for  just 
an  instant  with  a  veiled,  but  exquisite  refinement. 

The  newspaper  account  of  Pelee's  overflowing  wrath 
immediately  materialized  all  his  vague  thought  of  voy 
aging.  His  quest  had  vanished  from  New  York.  Had 
Selma  Cross  been  true  to  her  word;  at  least,  had  any 
part  of  their  interview  been  empowered  to  restore 
something  of  the  faith  of  Paula  Linster — there  had 
been  ample  time  for  him  to  hear  it.  He  was  afraid  that, 
in  itself,  his  old  intimacy  with  the  actress  had  been 
enough  to  startle  the  Skylark  into  uttermost  flight. 
Reifferscheid's  frigidity  had  required  only  one  test  to 
become  a  deep  trouble.  His  hint  that  Miss  Linster 
would  be  away  two  or  three  months  rendered  New  York 
and  a  return  to  his  own  home  equally  impossible.  Father 
Fontanel  held  a  bright,  substantial  warmth  for  his 
isolated  spirit — and  the  Panther  was  among  the  im 
minent  sailings. 


A  Study  at  Sea  255 

He  bought  his  berth  and  passage  on  the  morning 
of  the  sailing  date,  and  there  was  a  matinee  of  The 
Thing  in  the  meantime.  Charter  did  not  notify  Selma 
Cross  of  his  coming,  but  he  liked  the  play  unreservedly, 
and  was  amazed  by  the  perfection  of  her  work.  He 
wrote  her  a  line  to  this  effect;  and  also  a  note  of  con 
gratulation  and  greeting  to  Stephen  Cabot.  ...  It  was 
not  without  a  pang  that  he  looked  back  at  Manhattan 
from  The  Narrows  that  night. 

For  several  mornings  he  had  studied  the  gaunt, 
striding  figure  of  a  fellow-passenger,  who  appeared  to 
be  religious  in  the  matter  of  his  constitutional ;  or,  as 
a  sailor  softly  remarked  as  he  glanced  up  at  Charter 
from  his  holy-stoning,  "  He  seems  to  feel  the  need  av 
walkin'  off  sivin  or  eight  divils  before  answerin'  the 
breakfast-gong."  ...  In  behalf  of  this  stranger  also, 
Charter  happened  to  overhear  the  chief-steward  en 
couraging  one  of  the  waiters  to  extra-diligence  in  ser 
vice.  Queerly,  in  the  steward's  mind,  the  interest  seemed 
of  a  deeper  sort  than  even  an  unusual  fee  could  exact 
— as  if  he  recognized  in  the  stranger  a  man  exalted  in 
some  mysterious  masonry.  And  Charter  noticed  that 
the  haggard  giant  enforced  a  sort  of  willing  slavery 
throughout  the  ship — from  the  hands,  but  through 
the  heads.  This  strange  potentiality  was  decidedly  in 
teresting;  as  was  the  figure  in  itself,  which  seemed 
possessed  of  the  strength  of  vikings,  in  spite  of  an 
impression,  inevitable  to  Charter  when  he  drew  near 
— of  one  enduring  a  sort  of  Promethean  dissolution. 
Charter  reflected  upon  the  man's  eyes,  which  had  the 
startling  look  of  having  penetrated  beyond  the  formality 
of  Death — into  shadows  where  inquisition-hells  were 


256  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

limned.  It  was  not  until  he  heard  the  steward  address 
the  other  as  "  Doctor  Bellingham,"  that  the  fanciful 
attraction  weakened.  His  recollection  crowded  instantly 
with  newspaper  paragraphs  regarding  the  Bellingham 
activities.  Charter  was  rather  normal  in  his  masculine 
hatred  for  hypnotic  artists  and  itinerary  confessionals 
for  women. 

The  Panther  ran  into  a  gale  in  that  storm-crucible 
off  Hatteras.  Charter  smiled  at  the  thought,  as  the 
striding  Bellingham  passed,  doing  his  mileage  on  the 
rocking  deck,  that  the  roar  of  the  wind  in  the  funnels 
aloft  was  fierce  energy  in  the  draughts  of  this  human 
furnace.  While  his  own  interest  waned,  the  other, 
curiously  enough,  began  to  respond  to  his  unspoken 
overtures  of  a  few  days  before.  The  Panther  was  a  day 
out  from  San  Juan,  steaming  past  the  far-flung  coral 
shoals  off  Santo  Domingo,  when  Charter  was  beckoned 
forward  where  Bellingham  sat. 

"  This  soft  air  would  call  a  Saint  Francis  down 
from  his  spiritual  meditations,"  the  Doctor  observed. 

The  voice  put  Charter  on  edge,  and  the  manner 
affected  him  with  inward  humor.  It  was  as  if  the  other 
thought,  "  Why,  there's  that  pleasant-faced  young  man 
again.  Perhaps  it  would  be  just  as  well  to  speak  with 
him."  As  he  drew  up  his  chair,  however,  Charter  was 
conscious  of  an  abrupt  change  in  his  mental  attitude 
— an  inclination  to  combat,  verbally  to  rush  in,  seize  and 
destroy  every  false  utterance.  His  initial  idea  was  to 
compel  this  man  who  spoke  so  glibly  of  meditations 
to  explain  what  the  word  meant  to  him.  This  tense, 
nervous  impatience  to  disqualify  all  the  other  might 
say  became  dominant  enough  to  be  reckoned  with,  but 


A  Study  at  Sea  257 

when  Charter  began  to  repress  his  irritation,  a  sur 
prising  inner  resistance  was  encountered.  His  sensa 
tion  was  that  of  one  being  demagnetized.  Thoughts 
and  words  came  quickly  with  the  outgoing  energy  of 
the  current.  Altogether  he  was  extraordinarily  affected. 

"  These  Islands  are  not  particularly  adapted  for  one 
who  pursues  the  austerities,"  he  replied. 

"  Yet  where  can  you  find  such  temperamental  happi 
ness  ?  "  Bellingham  inquired,  plainly  testing  the  other. 
His  manner  of  speech  was  flippant,  as  if  it  were  quite 
the  same  to  him  if  his  acquaintance  preferred  another 
subject. 

"  Anywhere  among  the  less-evolved  nations,  when 
the  people  are  warm  and  fed." 

The  Doctor  smiled.  "  You  will  soon  see  the  long, 
lithe  coppery  bodies  of  the  Islanders,  as  they  plunge  into 
the  sea  from  the  Antillean  cliffs.  You  will  hear  the 
soft  laughter  of  the  women,  and  then  you  will  forget 
to  deny  their  perfection."  Sensuality  exhaled  from  the 
utterance. 

"  You  speak  of  the  few  brief  zenith  years  which  lie 
at  the  end  of  youth,"  Charter  said.  "  This  sort  of  per 
fection  exists  anywhere.  In  the  Antilles  it  certainly  is 
not  because  the  natives  have  learned  how  to  preserve 
life." 

"  That's  just  the  point,"  said  Bellingham.  "  Add  to 
their  natural  gifts  of  beautiful  young  bodies — the  knowl 
edge  of  preservation." 

"  Take  a  poor,  unread  Island  boy  and  inform  him 

how  to  live  forever,"  Charter  observed.     "  Of  course, 

he'll  grasp  the  process  instantly.     But  wouldn't  it  be 

rather  severe  on  the  other  boys  and  girls,  if  the  usual 

17 


258  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

formula  of  perpetuating  self  is  used?  I  mean,  would 
he  not  have  to  restore  his  vitality  from  the  others  ?  " 

Bellingham  stared  at  him.  Charter  faced  it  out, 
but  not  without  cost,  for  the  livid  countenance  before 
him  grew  more  and  more  ghastly  and  tenuous,  until 
it  had  the  effect  of  becoming  altogether  unsubstantial; 
and  out  of  this  wraith  shone  the  eyes  of  the  serpent. 
The  clash  of  wills  was  quickly  passed. 

"  You  have  encountered  a  different  fountain  of  youth 
from  mine,"  the  Doctor  said  gently. 

"  Rather  I  have  encountered  a  disgust  for  any  serious 
consideration  of  immortality  in  the  body." 

"  Interesting,  but  our  good  Saint  Paul  says  that 
those  who  are  in  the  body  when  the  last  call  sounds, 
will  be  caught  up — without  disturbing  the  sleep  of  the 
dead." 

"  It  would  be  rather  hard  on  such  bodies — if  the 
chariots  were  of  fire,"  Charter  suggested. 

He  was  inwardly  groping  for  his  poise.  He  could 
think  well  enough,  but  it  disturbed  him  to  feel  the  need 
to  avoid  the  other's  eyes.  He  liked  the  shaping  of  the 
conversation  and  knew  that  Bellingham  felt  himself  un 
known.  Charter  realized,  too,  that  he  would  strike  fire  if 
he  hammered  long  enough,  but  there  was  malevolence  in 
the  swift  expenditure  of  energy  demanded. 

Bellingham  smiled  again.  "  Then  you  think  it  is 
inevitable  that  the  end  of  man  is — the  clouds  ?  " 

"  The  aspiration  of  the  spirit,  I  should  say,  is  to  be 
relieved  of  feet  of  clay.  .  .  .  Immortality  in  the  body — 
that's  an  unbreakable  paradox  to  me.  I'm  laminated, 
Harveyized  against  anything  except  making  a  fine  ten 
tative  instrument  of  the  body." 


A  Study  at  Sea  259 

"  You  think,  then,  that  the  spirit  grows  as  the  body 
wastes  ?  " 

"  Orientals  have  encountered  starvation  with  aston 
ishing  results  to  philosophy,"  Charter  remarked.  "  But 
I  was  thinking  only  of  a  body  firmly  helmed  by  a 
clean  mind.  The  best  I  have  within  me  declares  that 
the  fleshly  wrapping  becomes  at  the  end  but  a  cumbering 
cerement;  that  through  life,  it  is  a  spirit-vault.  When 
I  pamper  the  body,  following  its  fitful  and  imperious  ap 
petites,  I  surely  stiffen  the  seals  of  the  vault.  In  my 
hours  in  which  the  senses  are  dominant  the  spirit  shrinks 
in  abhorrence;  just  as  it  thrills,  warms  and  expands 
in  rarer  moments  of  nobility." 

"  Then  the  old  martyrs  and  saints  who  macerated 
themselves  wove  great  folds  of  spirit  ?  " 

The  inconsequential  manner  of  the  question  urged 
Charter  to  greater  effort  to  detach,  if  possible,  for  a 
moment  at  least,  the  other's  Ego.  "  In  ideal,"  he  went 
on,  "  I  should  be  as  careless  of  food  as  Thoreau,  as 
careless  of  physical  pain  as  Suso.  As  for  the  reproduc 
tive  devil  incarnated  in  man — it,  and  all  its  ramifications, 
since  the  most  delicate  and  delightful  of  these  so  often 
betray — I  should  encase  in  the  coldest  steel  of  repres 
sion " 

"  You  say,  in  ideal,"  Bellingham  ventured  quietly. 
".  .  .  .  But  are  not  these  great  forces  splendid  fuel  for 
the  mind?  Prodigious  mental  workers  have  said  so." 

"A  common  view,"  said  Charter,  who  regarded  the 
remark  as  characteristic.  "  Certain  mental  workers  are 
fond  of  expressing  this.  You  hear  it  everywhere  with 
a  sort  of  '  Eureka.'  Strength  of  the  loins  is  but  a 
coarse  inflammation  to  the  mind.  A  man  may  use  such 


260  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

excess  strength,  earned  by  continence,  in  the  production 
of  exotics,  feverish  lyrics,  and  in  depicting  summer  pas 
sions,  but  the  truth  is,  that  so  long  as  that  force  is  not 
censored,  shriven  and  sterilized — it  is  the  same  jungle 
pestilence,  and  will  color  the  mind  with  impurity.  It 
is  much  better  where  it  belongs — than  in  the  mind." 

"  You  do  not  believe  in  the  wild  torrents,  the  forked 
lightnings,  and  the  shocking  thunders  of  the  poets  ?  " 

"  I  like  the  calm,  conquering  voices  of  the  prophets 
better.  .  .  .  Immortality  of  the  body?  .  .  .  There  can  be 
no  immortality  in  a  substance  which  earth  attracts.  We 
have  vast  and  violent  lessons  to  learn  in  the  flesh;  les 
sons  which  can  be  learned  only  in  the  flesh,  because  it 
is  a  matrix  for  the  integration  of  spirit.  It  appears  to 
me  that,  in  due  time,  man  reaches  a  period  when  he 
balances  in  the  attractions — between  the  weight  of  the 
body  and  the  lifting  of  the  soul.  This  is  the  result 
of  a  slow,  refining  process  that  has  endured  through 
all  time.  Reincarnation  is  the  best  theory  I  know  for 
the  process.  That  there  is  an  upward  tendency  driving 
the  universe,  seems  to  be  the  only  cause  and  justifica 
tion  for  Creating.  Devolution  cannot  be  at  the  centre 
of  such  a  system.  .  .  .  The  body  becomes  more  and 
more  a  spotless  garment  for  the  soul;  soul-light  more 
and  more  electrifies  it;  the  elimination  of  carnality  in 
thought  may  even  render  the  body  delicate  and  trans 
parent,  but  it  is  a  matrix  still,  and  falls  away — when 
one's  full-formed  wings  no  longer  need  the  weight  of 
a  thorax " 

"  What  an  expression !  "  Bellingham  observed  ab 
ruptly.  He  had  been  staring  away  toward  a  low,  cloudy 
film  of  land  in  the  south.  One  would  have  thought 


A  Study  at  Sea  261 

that  he  had  heard  only  the  sentence  which  aroused  his 
comment.  Charter  was  filling  with  violence.  The  man's 
vanity  was  chained  to  him  like  a  corpse.  This  ex 
perience  of  pouring  out  energy  to  no  purpose  aroused 
in  Charter  all  the  forces  which  had  combined  to  force 
the  public  to  his  work.  The  thought  came  that  Belling- 
ham  was  so  accustomed  to  direct  the  speech  and  thought 
of  others,  mainly  women,  that  he  had  lost  the  listening 
faculty. 

"  Let  me  express  it,  then,"  Charter  declared  with 
his  stoutest  repression,  "  that  this  beautiful  surviving 
element,  having  finished  with  the  flesh,  knows  only  the 
attraction  of  Light.  It  is  the  perfect  flower  of  ages  of 
earth-culture,  exquisite  and  inimitable  from  the  weather 
ing  centuries,  and  is  radiant  for  a  higher  destiny  than  a 
cooling  planet's  crust " 

"  My  dear  young  man,  you  speak  very  clearly,  pret 
tily,  and  not  without  force,  I  may  say, — a  purely  Platon- 
istic  gospel." 

Charter's  mental  current  was  turned  off  for  a  second. 
True  or  false,  the  remark  was  eminently  effective.  A 
great  man  might  have  said  it,  or  a  dilettante. 

"  In  which  case,  I  have  a  firm  foundation." 

"  But  I  am  essentially  of  the  moderns,"  said  Bel- 
lingham. 

"  Perhaps  I  should  have  known  that  from  your  first 
remark — about  the  brown  bodies  of  the  Islanders,  re 
joicing  in  the  sunlight  and  bathing  in  these  jewelled 
seas." 

"  Ah,  yes "  The  softening  of  Bellingham's  mouth, 

as  he  recalled  his  own  words,  injected  fresh  stimulant 
into  the  animus  of  the  other.  As  Charter  feared  the 


262  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

eyes,  so  he  had  come  to  loathe  the  mouth,  though  he  was 
not  pleased  with  the  intensity  of  his  feelings. 

"  Do  you  honestly  believe  that — that  which  feels  the 
attraction  of  earth,  and  becomes  a  part  of  earth  after 
death — is  the  stuff  of  immortality  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  By  marvellous  processes  of  prolongation  and  refine 
ment — and  barring  accident — yes." 

"  Processes  which  these  poor  Islanders  could  under 
stand?" 

"  We  are  moving  in  a  circle,"  Bellingham  said 
hastily. 

For  the  first  moment,  Charter  felt  the  whip-hand 
over  his  own  faculties. 

"  I've  noted  the  great,  modern  tendency  to  preach 
body,"  he  said,  inhaling  a  big  breath  of  the  fragrant  air, 
"  to  make  a  religion  of  bodily  health — to  look  for  ele 
mental  truth  in  alimentary  canals;  to  mix  prayer  with 
carnal  subterfuge  and  heaven  with  health  resorts.  Bet 
ter  Phallicism  bare-faced.  ...  I  read  a  tract  recently 
written  by  one  of  these  body-worshippers — the  smug, 
black  devil.  It  made  me  feel  just  as  I  did  when  I  found 
a  doctor  book  in  the  attic  once,  at  the  age  of  ten.  ... 
Whatever  I  may  be,  have  done,  may  feel,  dream  or  think 
below  the  diaphragm — hasn't  anything  to  do  with  my 
religion.  I  believe  in  health,  as  in  a  good  horse  or  a 
good  typewriter,  but  my  body's  health  is  not  going  to 
rule  my  day." 

"  You  are  young — to  have  become  chilled  by  such 
polar  blasts,"  Bellingham  said  uneasily,  for  he  now  found 
the  other's  eyes  but  without  result. 

"  I  came  into  the  world  with  a  full  quiver  of  red 
passions,"  Charter  said  wearily,  yet  strangely  glad.  "  The 


A  Study  at  Sea  263 

quiver  is  not  empty.  I  do  not  say  that  I  wish  it 
were,  but  I  have  this  to  declare:  I  do  not  relish  being 
told  how  to  play  with  the  barbs;  how  to  polish  and 
point  and  delight  in  them;  how  to  put  them  back  more 
deadly  poisoned.  I  think  there  are  big  blankets  of  mercy 
for  a  natural  voluptuary — for  the  things  done  when  tis 
sues  are  aflame — but  for  the  man  who  deliberately 
studies  to  recreate  them  without  cost,  and  tells  others 
of  his  experiments — frankly,  I  believe  in  hell  for  such 
men-maggots.  Oblivion  is  too  sweet.  The  essence  of 
my  hatred  for  these  Bodyists  is  because  of  the  poison 
they  infuse  into  the  minds  of  youths  and  maidens,  whose 
character-skeletons  are  still  rubbery.  .  .  .  But  let  such 
teachers  purr,  wriggle,  and  dilate — for  they're  going 
back  right  speedily  to  the  vipers ! " 

Bellingham's  eyes  had  been  lost  in  the  South.  He 
turned,  arose,  and  after  a  pause  said  lightly,  "  Your 
talk  is  strong  meat,  young  man.  .  .  .  I — I  suffered  a 
serious  accident  some  months  ago  and  cannot  stay  too 
long  in  one  place.  We  shall  talk  again.  How  far  do 
you  go  with  the  Panther?" 

"  Saint  Pierre." 

Charter  already  felt  the  first  pangs  of  reaction.  His 
vehemence,  the  burn  of  temper  for  himself,  in  that  he 
had  aUowed  the  other's  personality  to  prey  upon  him, 
and  the  unwonted  aggressiveness  of  his  talk — all  as 
sumed  an  evil  aspect  now  as  he  perceived  the  occultist's 
ghastly  face.  In  rising,  Bellingham  seemed  to  have 
stirred  within  himself  centres  of  unutterable  torture. 
His  look  suggested  one  who  has  been  drilled  in  dreadful 
arcanums  of  pain,  unapproached  by  ordinary  men. 

"  I    think     I    must    have    been  pent  a  long  time/' 


264  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

Charter  said  in  his  trouble.  "  Perhaps,  I'm  a  little 
afraid  of  myself  and  was  rehearsing  a  warning  for 
the  strength  of  my  own  bridle-arm — since  we're  swing 
ing  down  into  these  Isles  of  Seduction." 

"  You'll  find  a  more  comfortable  coolness  with  the 
years,  I  think,  and  cease  to  abhor  your  bounding  physical 
vitality.  Remember,  '  Jesus  came  eating  and  drink 
ing ' " 

Charter  started  under  the  touch  of  the  old  iron.  "  But 
'  wisdom  is  justified  of  all  her  children,' "  he  responded 
quickly. 

They  were  at  the  door  of  Bellingham's  cabin,  which 
was  forward  on  the  promenade.  The  doctor  laughed 
harshly  as  he  turned  the  key.  "  I  see  you  have  your 
Scriptures,  too,"  he  said.  "  We  must  talk  again." 

"  How  far  do  you  go  with  the  Panther? "  Charter 
asked,  drawing  away.  His  eyes  had  filled  for  a  second, 
as  the  door  swung  open,  with  the  photograph  of  a 
strangely  charming  young  woman  within  the  cabin. 

"  I  have  not  decided — possibly  on  to  South  America." 

Charter  felt  as  he  walked  alone  that  he  had  shown 
his  youth,  even  a  pertness  of  youth.  He  recalled  that 
he  had  done  almost  all  the  talking;  that  he  had  felt 
the  combativeness  of  a  boy  who  scents  a  rival  from 
another  school — quite  ridiculous.  Moreover,  he  was 
weary,  as  if  one  of  his  furious  seasons  of  work  had 
just  ended — that  rare  and  excellent  kind  of  work  which 
gathers  about  itself  an  elemental  force  to  drive  the 
mind  as  with  fire  until  the  course  is  run.  .  .  .  He  did 
not  encounter  Bellingham  during  the  rest  of  the  voy 
age. 

Long  before  dawn  the  Panther  gained  the  harbor  be- 


A  Study  at  Sea  265 

fore  Saint  Pierre,  and  Charter  awoke  to  the  conscious 
ness  of  a  disorder  in  the  air.  Alone  on  deck,  while  the 
night  was  being  driven  back  over  the  rising  land,  he 
was  delighted  to  pick  out  the  writhing  letters  of  gold, 
"Saragassa,"  through  the  smoky  gray,  a  few  furlongs 
to  the  south.  Peter  Stock,  an  acquaintance  from 
a  former  call  at  Saint  Pierre,  had  become  a  solid  and 
fruitful  memory.  .  .  . 

Father  Fontanel  was  found  early,  where  the  suffer 
ing  was  greatest  in  the  city.  The  old  eyes  lit  with 
gladness  as  he  caught  Charter  with  both  hands,  and 
murmured  something  as  his  gaze  sank  into  the  eyes 
of  the  younger  man — something  which  Charter  did  not 
exactly  understand,  about  wolves  being  slain. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  with  Old  Man  Pelee, 
Father?  We  heard  him  groaning  in  the  night,  and  the 
town  is  fetid  with  his  sickness." 

"  Ah,  my  son,  I  am  afraid !  " 

Had  all  the  seismologists  of  civilization  gathered  in 
Saint  Pierre,  and  uttered  a  verdict  that  the  volcano  was 
an  imminent  menace,  Charter  would  not  have  turned  a 
more  serious  look  at  Pelee  than  he  did  that  moment. 
...  At  the  Palms,  he  found  Peter  Stock  and  a  joyous 
welcome.  They  arranged  for  luncheon  together,  and  the 
Capitalist  hurried  down  into  the  city.  .  .  .  That  proved  a 
memorable  luncheon,  since  Peter  Stock  at  the  last 
moment  persuaded  Miss  Wyndam  to  join  them. 

Charter  was  disturbed  with  the  thought  that  he  had 
seen  her  before;  and  amazed  that  he  could  have  for 
gotten  where.  He  could  only  put  it  far  back  among  the 
phantasmagoria  of  drinking  days.  Certainly  the  sane, 
restored  Charter  had  never  met  this  woman  and  for- 


266  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

gotten.    His  veins  were  dilated  as  by  a  miraculous  wine. 

"  The  name  is  new  to  me,  but  I  seem  to  have  seen 
you  somewhere,  Miss  Wyndam,"  he  declared. 

"  That's  the  second  time  you've  said  that,  young 
man,"  Mr.  Stock  remarked.  "  Don't  your  sentences 
register  ?  " 

"  It's  always  bewildering — I  know  how  Mr.  Charter 
feels,"  Paula  managed  to  say.  "  I'm  quite  sure  we  were 
never  introduced,  though  I  know  Mr.  Charter's  work." 

"  That's  good  of  you,  indeed,"  he  said.  "  I  don't 
mean — to  know  my  work — but  to  help  'me  out  with 
Friend  Stock.  It  is  bewildering  that  I  have  forgotten. 
I  feel  like  a  boy  in  an  enchanted  forest.  Pelee  has  been 
working  wonders  all  day." 

"  I  can't  follow  you,"  the  Capitalist  sighed.  "  Your 
sentences  are  puckered." 

They  hardly  heard  him.  Paula,  holding  fast  with 
all  her  strength  to  the  part  she  had  planned  to  play, 
sensed  Charter's  blind  emotion,  distinct  from  her  own 
series  of  shocks.  To  her  it  was  that  furious  moment 
of  adjustment,  when  a  man  and  his  ideal  meet  for  the 
first  time  in  a  woman's  heart.  As  for  this  heart,  she 
feared  they  would  hear  its  beating.  Instantly,  she  knew 
that  he  had  not  come  to  Saint  Pierre  expecting  to  find 
her;  knew  that  she  was  flooding  into  his  subconscious- 
ness — that  he  felt  worlds  and  could  not  understand. 
She  found  the  boy  in  his  eyes — the  boy  of  his  old  picture 
— and  the  deep  lines  and  the  white  skin  of  a  man  who 
has  lived  clean,  and  the  brow  of  a  man  who  has  thought 
many  clean  things.  He  was  thinking  of  the  Skylark, 
and  "  Wyndam "  disturbed  him.  .  .  .  Always  when  he 
hesitated  in  his  speech,  the  right  word  sprang  to  her 


A  Study  at  Sea  267 

lips  to  help  him.  She  caught  the  very  processes  of  his 
thinking;  his  remoteness  from  the  thought  of  food,  was 
her  own.  .  .  .  For  hours,  since  she  had  heard  his  voice 
below,  Paula  had  paced  the  floor  of  her  room,  planning 
to  keep  her  secret  long.  She  would  play  and  watch 
his  struggle  to  remember  the  Skylark ;  she  would  weigh 
the  forces  of  the  conflict,  stimulate  it ;  study  him  among 
men,  in  the  presence  of  suffering,  and  in  the  dread  of 
the  mountain.  All  this  she  had  planned,  but  now  her 
whole  heart  went  out  to  the  boy  in  his  eyes — the  boy 
that  smiled.  All  the  doubts  which  at  best  she  had  hoped 
for  the  coming  days  to  banish  were  erased  in  a  moment ; 
she  even  believed  in  its  fullness  the  letter  from  Selma 
Cross — because  he  was  embarrassed,  brimming  with 
emotions  he  could  not  understand,  quite  as  the  boy  of 
her  dreams  would  be.  She  lived  full-length  in  his 
silences,  hardly  dared  to  look  at  him  now,  for  she  felt 
his  constant  gaze.  She  knew  that  she  was  colorless,  but 
that  her  eyes  were  filled  with  light.  .  .  .  Presently  she 
realized  that  they  were  talking  of  Father  Fontanel. 

"He's  a  good  old  man,"  said  Peter  Stock.  "He 
works  day  and  night — and  refuses  to  call  k  work.  Just 
think  of  having  a  servant  with  a  God  like  Father  Fon- 
tanel's  to  make  work  easy !  " 

"  He's  even  a  little  bit  sorry  for  Pelee,"  Charter 
said.  "  I'm  never  quite  the  same  in  Saint  Pierre.  Many 
times  up  in  the  States,  I  ask  myself,  if  it  isn't  largely 
in  my  mind  about  Father  Fontanel's  spirit  and  his 
effect  upon  me.  It  isn't.  Stronger  than  ever  it  came 
to  me  this  morning.  You  know  him  ?  "  He  turned  the 
last  to  the  woman. 

"  Yes,  I  found  him  down  on  the  water-front " 


268  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

"  And  brought  him  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Stock,  and 
added :  "  You  know  what  bothered  me  about  priests  so 
long — they  seem  to  have  it  all  settled  between  them 
that  theirs  is  the  only  true  Air-line  Limited  to  God. 
Fontanel's  down  in  the  lowlands,  where  life  is  pent  and 
cruel,  where  there  are  weak  sisters  and  little  ones  who 
have  to  be  helped  over  hard  ways — that's  what  gets 
Peter  Stock." 

"  You  don't  know  how  good  that  is  to  hear,"  Paula 
said  softly.  "  I  have  thought  it,  too,  about  some  men 
in  holy  orders — black  figures  moving  along  in  a  '  grim, 
unfraternal '  Indian  file,  with  their  eyes  so  occupied  in 
keeping  their  feet  from  breaking  fresh  ground — that  it 
seems  they  must  sometimes  lose  the  Summit." 

Charter  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  Peter  Stock 
regarded  their  plates.  Paula  made  a  quick  pretense 
of  eating,  and  was  grateful  when  Charter  broke  the 
silence :  "  Yes,  Father  Fontanel  has  found  one  of  the 
trails  to  the  Top — one  of  the  happy  ones.  Sometimes  I 
think  there  are  just  as  many  trails,  as  an  ant  could  find 
to  the  top  of  an  apple.  Wayfarers  go  a-singing  on 
Father  Fontanel's  trail — eyes  warm  with  soft  skies  and 
untellable  dreams.  It's  a  way  of  fineness  and  loving- 
kindness " 

Mr.  Stock  had  risen  from  the  table  and  moved  to 
a  window  which  faced  the  North.  All  was  vague  about 
them.  Paula  had  been  carried  by  Charter's  voice  toward 
far-shining  mountains.  ...  In  the  silence,  she  met  the 
strange,  steady  eyes  of  the  boy,  and  looked  away  to 
find  that  the  room  had  darkened. 

"  It  is  getting  dark,"  he  said. 

She  would  have  said  it,  if  he  hadn't. 


A  Study  at  Sea  269 

The  mountain  rumbled. 

"  The  North  is  a  mass  of  swirling  grays  and  blacks," 
Peter  Stock  announced  from  the  window.  "  It  isn't  a 
thunderstorm " 

A  sharp  detonation  cleaved  the  darkening  air,  and 
from  the  rear  of  the  house  the  answer  issued — quavering 
cries  of  children,  sharp  calling  of  mothers,  and  the  sullen 
undertone  of  men.  A  subdued  drumming  came  from 
the  North  now,  completing  the  tossing  currents  of  sound 
about  the  house.  The  dismal  bellowing  of  cattle  and 
the  stamping  of  ponies  was  heard  from  the  barns.  All 
this  was  wiped  out  by  a  series  of  terrific  crashes,  and 
the  floor  stirred  as  if  intaking  a  deep  breath.  The  din 
ing-room  filled  with  a  crying,  crouching  gray-lipped 
throng  of  servants.  A  deluge  of  ash  complicated  the 
half-night  outside,  and  the  curse  of  sulphur  pressed 
down. 

Paula  arose.  Charter  had  taken  his  place  close  be 
side  her,  but  spoke  no  word. 


TWENTIETH  CHAPTER 

CHARTER'S  MIND  BECOMES  THE  ARENA  OF   CON 
FLICT  BETWEEN  THE  WYNDAM  WOMAN 
AND   SKYLARK    MEMORIES 

IN  the  Rue  Rivoli  there  was  a  little  stone  wine-shop. 
The  street  was  short,  narrow,  crooked,  and  ill-paved — a 
cleft  in  Saint  Pierre's  terrace-work.  Just  across  from  the 
vault-like  entrance  to  the  shop,  the  white,  scarred  cliff 
arose  to  another  flight  of  the  city.  Between  the  shop 
and  the  living-rooms  behind  there  was  a  little  court, 
shaded  by  mango-trees.  Dwarfed  banana-shrubs  flour 
ished  in  the  shade  of  the  mangoes,  and  singing-birds 
were  caged  in  the  lower  foliage.  Since  the  sun  could 
find  no  entrance,  the  wine-shop  was  dark  as  a  cave,  and 
as  cool.  One  window,  if  an  aperture  like  the  clean 
wound  of  a  thirteen-inch  gun  could  be  called  a  window, 
opened  to  the  north;  and  from  it,  by  the  grace  of  a 
crook  in  the  Rue  Rivoli,  might  be  seen  the  mighty- 
calibred  cone  of  Pelee. 

Pere  Rabeaut's  wine  was  very  good,  and  some  of 
it  was  very  cheap.  The  service  was  much  as  you  made 
it,  for  if  you  were  known  you  were  permitted  to  help 
yourself.  In  this  world  there  was  no  one  of  station  too 
lofty  to  go  to  Pere  Rabeaut's;  and  since  those  of  no 
station  whatsoever  drank  rum,  instead  of  wine,  you 
would  meet  no  one  there  to  whom  it  was  not  a  privilege 
to  say  "Bon  jour" 

"  Come  and  see  my  birds,"  the  crafty  Rabeaut  would 
say  if  he  approved  of  you. 

270 


The  Wyndam  Woman  271 

"  Where  do  you  live  ? "  you  might  ask,  being  a 
stranger. 

"  In  the  coolest  hovel  of  Saint  Pierre,"  was  his  in 
variable  answer. 

And  presently,  if  you  were  truly  alive,  you  would 
find  yourself  in  the  little  stone  wine-shop,  listening  to  the 
birds  and  looking  over  the  stalled  casks,  demijohns,  and 
bottles,  filled  with  more  or  less  concentrated  soil  and 
sun.  In  due  course,  Soronia  would  appear  in  the 
shadowy  doorway  (it  would  seem  that  the  bird-songs 
were  hushed  as  she  crossed  the  court),  and  she  would 
show  you  a  vintage  of  especially  long  ago.  After  that, 
though  you  became  a  missionary  in  Shantung,  or  a  re 
mittance-man  in  Tahiti,  you  would  never  forget  the 
bouquet  of  the  Rabeaut  wines,  the  cantatas  of  the  ca 
naries,  nor  the  witchery  of  Soronia's  eyes.  ...  If  the  little 
stone  wine-shop  were  transplanted  in  New  York,  artists 
would  find  it,  and  you  would  be  forced  to  fetch  your 
own  goblet  and  have  difficulty  in  getting  in  and  out  for 
the  crowd  o'  nights. 

Thither  Charter  went  the  next  morning  and  sat  down 
in  the  cherished  coolness.  Peter  Stock  had  reminded  him 
of  their  former  talks  there,  over  a  particular  wine  of 
Epernay,  and  had  arranged  to  meet  him  this  morning. 
...  In  the  foreground  of  Charter's  mind  a  gritty  de 
pression  had  settled,  but  throughout  the  finer,  farther 
consciousness,  where  realities  abide,  there  hung  a  mystic 
constellation,  which  every  little  while  (and  with  a  shock 
of  ecstasy,  so  wonderful  that  his  mere  brain  was  alarmed 
and  called  it  scandalous),  fused  together  into  a  great, 
glowing  ardent  Star  of  Bethlehem.  .  .  . 

Again,  the  mere  brain  said :    "  What  have  you  done 


272  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

with  your  three  years?  The  actress  knew  you  better 
than  you  knew  yourself.  All  your  letters,  and  the  spirit 
of  your  letters,  have  fallen  into  ruin  before  the  first 
woman  you  meet  down  here  in  a  dreamy,  tropic  isle. 
How  can  you — you,  who  have  lived  truly  for  a  little 
while,  and  seemed  to  have  felt  the  love  that  lifts — sink 
into  the  fragrant  meshes  of  romance,  through  the  beau 
tiful  eyes  of  a  stranger  to  your  world  and  to  your 
ways  ?  And  what  of  Skylark,  the  lovely,  the  winged  ?  " 
.  .  .  And  the  soul  of  the  man  riding  at  its  moorings  in 
the  bright  calm  of  wisdom's  anchorage,  made  laughing 
answer :  "  This  is  the  Skylark — ah,  not  that  Wyndam 
is  Linster, — but  this  is  the  veiled  queen  who  has  waited 
so  long  for  the  House  of  Charter  to  be  ready.  This 
is  the  forever-fairy  that  puzzled  the  nights  and  mornings 
of  the  long-ago  Charter  boy.  It  was  her  wing  that  held 
the  last  dart  of  light  in  the  gardens  of  boyhood  before 
the  frowning  thunders  came.  It  was  her  songs  that 
made  the  youth's  mind  magic  with  lyrics,  certain  ones 
so  very  clear  that  they  fitted  into  words.  It  was  to 
find  her  dazzling  brow  that  lured  him  to  prodigious 
wanderings,  until  he  fell  fainting  in  the  dust  of  other 
women's  chariots.  It  was  the  rustling  of  her  wings  that 
he  heard  from  without,  when  he  lay  in  the  Caverns 
of  Devouring,  where  the  twain,  Flesh  and  Death,  hold 
ghastly  carnival;  the  flash  of  her  wings  again  that 
lifted  his  eyes  to  the  Rising  Road.  It  was  her  spirit  in 
the  splendid  East  whose  miracles  of  singing  and  shining 
made  glorious,  with  creative  touch,  his  hours  by  the 
garret  window.  ...  It  was  she  of  exquisite  shoulder 
and  starry  eyes  and  radiant  sympathies — before  whom 
the  boy,  the  man  and  the  spirit,  bowed  in  thankfulness 
yesterday.  .  .  . 


The  Wyndam  Woman  273 

And  so  he  sat  there  thinking,  thinking, — glimpsing 
the  errant  centuries  in  the  same  high  light  of  memory 
that  this  very  morning  recurred — an  hour  or  two  ago, 
when  he  had  walked  with  her  through  the  mango-grove 
in  the  coolness  following  a  dawn-shower  that  had 
washed  the  white  weight  of  Pelee's  ash-winter  from  the 
trees.  ..."  What  a  chaos  I  must  be,"  he  murmured  in 
dull  anguish,  "  with  the  finest  of  my  life  plighted  to  a 
vision  that  is  lost — while  I  linger  desolate  in  the  pres 
ence  of  wondrous  reality !  "  .  .  .  Some  one  was  moving 
and  whispering  in  the  little  room  across  the  court  of 
the  song-birds.  .  .  .  Peter  Stock  entered,  his  white  hair 
and  mustache  dulled  with  ash;  his  eyes  red  and  angry. 

"  Well,  I  think  I've  got  Father  Fontanel  frightened," 
he  said,  sinking  down  across  the  little  round  table. 
"  He's  telling  the  people  to  shut  up  their  houses  and  go 
to  Fort  de  France.  Sixty  or  seventy  have  started,  and 
many  more  have  gone  up  to  Morne  Rouge  and  Ajoupa 
Boullion,  where  it  happens  to  be  cool,  though  they're  just 
as  close  to  the  craters.  Fontanel  has  come  into  a  very 
proper  spirit  of  respect  for  Pelee's  destructive  capacity. 
By  the  way,  did  you  hear  what  happened  yesterday, 
during  the  darkness  and  racket  while  we  were  at  din 


ner  r 

(S 


Not  definitely.     Tell  me,"  Charter  urged. 
"  The  extreme  northern  end  of  the  city,  or  part  of 
it,  was  flooded  out  like  an  ant-hill  under  a  kettle  boiling 
over.    The  River  Blanche  overflowed  her  banks,  and  ran 
with  boiling  mud  from  the  volcano.    Thirty  people  were 
killed  and  the  Usine  Guerin  destroyed." 
"I  didn't  think  it  was  so  bad  as  that." 
"  I  hope  I'm  wrong,  but  the  Guerin  disaster  may 
18 


274  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

be  only  a  preliminary  demonstration — like  the  operator 
experimenting  to  find  if  it  is  dark  enough  to  start  the 
main  fireworks.  Nobody  can  complain  to  Saint  Peter 
that  Pelee  hasn't  warned." 

"  There's  another  way  to  look  at  it,"  Charter  said. 
"  The  volcano's  overflow  into  the  River  Blanche  might 
have  eased  the  pressure  upon  the  craters.  I  wonder 
if  there  is  any  authority  or  precedent  for  such  a  hope  ?  " 

"  If  Pelee's  fuse  is  burning  shorter  and  shorter 
toward  a  Krakatoan  cataclysm,"  Peter  Stock  declared 
moodily,  "  it's  not  for  man  to  say  what  spark  will  shake 
the  world.  ...  I  tried  to  see  Mondet  this  morning — 
but  couldn't  get  in.  You  wouldn't  think  one  white,  small 
person  could  contain  so  much  poison.  I  am  haunted 
with  the  desire  to  commit  physical  depredations." 

"  I  think  I'll  take  a  little  journey  up  toward  the 
craters  to-morrow,"  Charter  confided,  after  a  moment. 
"  They  say  that  the  weather  is  quiet  and  clean  to  the 
north  of  the  mountain.  One  might  ride  up  and  try 
to  reason  with  Pere  Pelee " 

At  this  juncture  Soronia  entered  the  wine-shop  from 
the  little  court,  to  fill  the  eyes  and  the  goblets  of  the 
Americans.  A  dark,  ardent,  alluring  face;  flesh  like 
dull  gold,  made  wonderful  by  the  faintest  tints  of  ripe 
fruit;  eyes  that  could  melt  and  burn  and  laugh;  a 
fragile  figure,  but  radiantly  abloom,  and  as  worthily 
draped  as  a  young  palm  in  a  richly  blossoming  vine. 
She  made  one  think  of  a  strange,  regal  flower,  an  ex 
periment  of  Nature,  wrought  in  the  most  sumptuous 
shadow  of  a  tropic  garden.  .  .  .  She  was  gone.  Charter 
laughed  at  the  drained  look  in  Peter  Stock's  face. 

"  An  orchid "  the  latter  began. 


The  Wyndam  Woman  275 

"  Or  a  sunlit  cathedral  window." 

"  Will  the  visitation  be  repeated  ?  Do  I  wake  or 
sleep?" 

"  The  years  have  dealt  artistically  in  the  little  wine 
shop,"  said  Charter.  "  They  say  old  Pere  Rabeaut 
married  a  fille  de  couleur — daughter  of  a  former  Gov 
ernor-General  of  Martinique." 

"  Some  Daphne  of  the  Islands,  she  must  have  been, 
since  Pere  Rabeaut  does  not  seem  designed  to  father  a 
sunset.  .  .  .  It's  my  first  glimpse  of  Soronia  this  voyage. 
She  was  beautiful  in  a  girlish  way  last  year.  .  .  .  She's 
in  love,  or  she  couldn't  glow  like  that.  I  met  Pere 
Rabeaut  down  in  the  city " 

Charter  arose.  "  Perhaps  the  lover  is  across  the 
court.  I  heard  a  whispering  through  the  bird-songs — 
and  one  could  not  fail  to  note  how  she  hurried  back. 
...  I  must  go  on.  The  water  is  no  better  here  than 
elsewhere." 

"  But  the  wine  is,"  said  Peter  Stock.  "  Wait  luncheon 
for  me  at  the  Palms.  ...  By  the  way,  how'd  you  like 
to  take  a  little  cruise — feel  the  Saragassa  under  you, 
running  like  a  scared  deer  to  hitch  herself  to  the  solid 
old  Horn,  built  of  rock  and  sealed  with  icebergs " 

"  A  clean  thought,  in  this  air — but  the  eventualities 
here  attract.  When  Father  Fontanel  grows  afraid  for 
the  city,  well,  it  may  not  be  scientific,  but  it's  ominous. 
...  I  wanted  to  ask  if  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that 
even  the  Morne  d'Orange  might  fall  into  the  sweeping 
range  of  Pelee's  guns  ?  " 

"  In  other  words — if  the  mountain  won't  recede  from 
Miss  Wyndam,  we'd  better  snatch  up  Miss  Wyndam 
and  make  a  getaway  from  the  mountain  ?  " 


276  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

From  far  within  a  "  Yea  "  was  acclaimed,  yet  there 
was  a  sullen  Charter  integrity  which  had  given  its  word 
to  Skylark,  and  feared  the  test  of  being  shut  on  the 
same  ship  with  a  woman  who  endowed  him  with  such 
power  that  he  felt  potent  to  go  to  the  craters  and  remon 
strate  with  the  Monster. 

"  It  might  be  well  to  ask  her,"  Charter  replied 
gloomily,  "  but  I'm  rather  absorbed  in  the  action  here 
and  Father  Fontanel's  work.  I  want  to  look  at  the 
craters  from  behind " 

"  Twice  you've  said  that,"  said  Peter  Stock,  "  and 
each  time  it  reminds  me  that  I'm  old,  yet  there's  a  lure 
about  it.  I'm  thinking " 

Their  heads  were  together  at  the  little  round  window 
for  the  mountain  had  rumbled  again,  and  they  stared 
beyond  the  city  into  the  ashen  shroud. 

"  Grand  old  martyr,"  Charter  muttered,  "  hang  on, 
hang  on !  .  .  .  The  flag  of  truce  still  flies." 

Paula  at  the  Palms  reflected  the  Charter  conflict 
that  morning.  She  had  seen  it  in  his  eyes  and  felt  it 
in  his  heart,  as  they  had  walked  together  in  the  mock- 
winter  of  the  mango-grove  before  breakfast.  Away  from 
him  now,  however,  she  could  not  be  sure  that  "  Wynd- 
am,"  representing  the  woman,  altogether  satisfied  his 
vision  of  Skylark.  Very  strange,  he  was,  in  his  strug 
gling,  and  it  became  harder,  and  a  more  delicate  thing 
than  she  had  believed,  to  say,  "  I  am  Paula  Linster." 
She  had  felt  this  great  restlessness  of  his  spirit  vaguely 
in  the  early  letters — a  stormy,  battling  spirit  which  his 
brain  constantly  labored  to  interpret.  She  had  seen  his 
moments  of  calm,  too,  when  the  eyes  and  smile  of  the 


The  Wyndam  Woman  277 

boy  rendered  his  attractions  so  intimate  to  her,  that  she 
could  have  told  him  anything' — but  these  calms  did  not 
endure  even  in  her  presence.  She  did  not  want  the 
woman,  Wyndam,  despised,  nor  yet  the  Skylark  put 
from  him.  It  became  a  reality,  that  out  of  his  struggle 
Truth  would  rise;  meanwhile,  though  not  with  the 
entire  sanction  of  a  certain  inner  voice,  she  withheld 
her  secret,  remaining  silent  and  watchful  in  the  midst 
of  the  greatest  drama  the  world  could  bring  to  her 
understanding.  .  .  . 

Paula  did  not  fail  to  note  that  Peter  Stock  was  some 
what  surprised  when  she  refused  for  the  present  his 
invitation  to  spend  the  nights  at  least  out  in  the  cool 
Caribbean.  She  saw,  moreover,  that  Quentin  Charter 
was  beginning  to  fear  the  mountain,  because  she  re 
mained  at  the  Palms.  Indeed,  it  was  hard  for  all  to 
remember  that  in  form,  at  least,  they  were  mere  ac 
quaintances,  so  familiar  had  they  become  to  each  other 
in  the  pressure  of  Pelee.  Above  all  this,  she  was  almost 
continually  conscious  of  Bellingham  since  the  receipt  of 
Madame  Nestor's  letter.  It  was  not  that  his  power 
was  formidable  enough  to  disorder  the  unfolding  of 
the  drama,  but  she  felt  his  nearness,  his  strategies — all 
the  more  strange,  as  there  had  been  no  sign  of  him 
since  the  arrival  of  the  Panther.  If  for  no  other  reason, 
she  would  have  found  it  difficult  to  disclose  her  real 
name  to  Quentin  Charter,  while  her  mind  was  even  dis 
tantly  the  prey  of  the  black  giant. 

These  were  tremendous  hours — when  but  a  word 
from  her  withheld  two  hearts  from  bursting  into  anthems. 
Bravely,  she  gloried  in  these  last  great  refinings — long 
ings,  fears,  exaltations,  but  never  was  she  without  the 


278  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

loftiest  hope  of  her  life.  The  man  who  had  come  was 
so  much  that  the  man  should  be.  She  saw  his  former 
years  as  the  wobblings  of  a  top  that  has  not  yet  gained 
its  momentum.  Only  at  its  highest  speed  does  the  top 
sing  its  peace  with  God.  .  .  .  Had  not  the  finest  glow 
of  his  powers  been  reserved  until  her  coming?  .  .  . 

In  such  moments  as  these,  she  could  look  back  upon 
her  own  agonies  with  gratitude.  She  had  needed  a 
Bellingham.  Should  she  not  be  thankful  that  a  beyond- 
devil  had  been  required  to  test  her  soul  ?  In  the  splendid 
renewals  of  her  spirit,  Paula  felt  that  she  could  look 
into  the  magician's  eyes  now  and  command  him  from 
her.  She  was  even  grateful  that  she  had  been  swept 
in  the  fury  of  The  High  Tide,  nor  would  she  have  had 
that  supreme  night  of  trial  when  she  fled  from  the 
Zoroaster,  stricken  from  her  past.  Just  as  Quentin 
Charter,  of  the  terrible  thirsts,  had  required  his  years 
of  wrath  and  wandering,  so  her  soul  had  needed  the 
test  of  a  woman's  revelations  and  man's  sublimated 
passion.  Deep  within  lived  a  majestic  happiness — earned. 

At  one  o'clock,  as  she  was  going  below  for  luncheon, 
the  sun  gave  up  trying  to  shine  through  the  ash-fog, 
but  volumes  of  dreadful  heat  found  the  earth.  The 
Saragossa  was  invisible  in  the  roadstead;  there  was  no 
line  dividing  shore  and  sea,  nor  sea  and  sky.  It  was 
all  an  illimitable  mask,  whose  fabric  was  the  dust  which 
for  centuries  had  lain  upon  the  dynamos  of  Pelee. 


TWENTY-FIRST  CHAPTER 

CHARTER  COMMUNES  WITH  THE  WYNDAM  WOMAN. 

AND  CONFESSES  THE  GREAT  TROUBLE  OF 

HIS  HEART  TO  FATHER  FONTANEL 

"Do  you  know  what  I  discovered  this  morning?" 
Peter  Stock  asked,  after  the  three  had  found  a  table 
together.  "  M.  Mondet  is  trying  to  keep  the  people  in 
town  for  political  reasons.  It  appears  that  there  is  to 
be  an  election  in  a  few  days.  All  my  efforts,  and,  by 
non-parishioners,  the  efforts  of  Father  Fontanel,  are  re 
garded  as  a  political  counter-stroke — to  rush  a  certain 
element  of  the  suffrage  out  of  the  town.  .  .  .  This  is 
certainly  Ash-Wednesday,  isn't  it?" 

Charter  laughed.  "  My  theory  that  the  Guerin  dis 
aster  might  relieve  the  craters  and  give  surcease  to 
Saint  Pierre — doesn't  seem  to  work  out.  The  air  is 
getting  thicker,  even." 

"  It  isn't  really  ash,  you  know,"  explained  Mr. 
Stock,  "  but  rock,  ground  fine  as  neat  in  the  hell-mills 
under  the  mountain  and  shot  out  by  steam  through 
Pelee's  valves " 

"  Intensely  graphic,"  said  Paula. 

"  It  has  been  rather  a  graphic  morning,"  Charter 
remarked.  "  Friend  Stock  is  virile  from  his  activities 
with  Father  Fontanel." 

"  Well,  I  didn't  make  a  covenant  with  the  moun 
tain — as  you  did  this  morning  in  the  wine-shop.  You 
should  have  seen  him,  Miss  Wyndam,  staring  away  at 
the  volcano  and,  muttering,  '  Hang  on,  old  chap,  hang 

279 


280  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

on ! '  .  .  .  My  dear  young  woman,  doesn't  a  ride  on  the 
ocean  sound  good  for  this  afternoon?  You  can  sit  on 
deck  and  hold  the  little  black  babies.  The  Saragassa 
takes  another  load  to  Fort  de  France  in  two  or  three 
hours." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  Not  just  yet.  You  don't 
realize  how  wonderful  the  drama  is  to  me — you  and 
Father  Fontanel,  playing  Cassandra  down  in  the  city — 
the  groaning  mountain,  and  the  pity  of  it  all.  I  confess 
a  little  inconvenience  of  the  weather  isn't  enough  to 
drive  me  out.  It  isn't  very  often  given  to  a  woman  to 
watch  the  operations  of  a  destiny  so  big  as  this." 

The  capitalist  turned  to  Charter.  "  You  know  Em 
press  Josephine  was  born  in  Martinique  and  has  become 
a  sort  of  patron  saint  for  the  Island.  A  beautiful  statue 
of  her  stands  in  the  square  at  Fort  de  France  where  our 
refugees  are  encamped.  I  was  only  thinking  that  the 
map  of  Europe  and  the  history  of  France  might  have 
been  altered  greatly  if  our  beloved  Josephine  had  been 
gifted  with  a  will  like  this — of  Miss  Wyndam's." 

Her  pale,  searching  face  regarded  Charter  for  a 
second,  and  his  eyes  said  plainly  as  words,  "  Don't  you 
think  you'd  better  consider  this  more  seriously  ?  " 

"  Maybe  you'll  like  the  idea  better  for  the  evening, 
when  the  Saragossa  is  back  in  the  roadstead  again, 
comparatively  empty,"  Peter  Stock  added  presently. 
"  Father  Fontanel  and  I  have  a  lot  to  do  in  the  mean 
time.  Can  you  imagine  our  first  parents  occupying 
themselves  when  the  first  tornado  was  swooping  down — 
our  dear  initial  mother,  surpassingly  wind-blown,  driving- 
the  geese  to  shelter,  propping  up  the  orchards,  getting 
out  the  rain-barrels,  and  tightening  tent-pins  ?  " 


The  Great  Trouble  281 

"  Vividly,"  said  Paula. 

"  That's  just  how  busy  we  are — Father  Fontanel  and 
I." 

It  was  to  be  expected  that  a  sophomoric  point- 
lessness  should  characterize  the  sayings  of  the  two  in 
the  midst  of  Peter  Stock's  masculinity  and  the  thrilling 
magnitude  of  the  marvel  each  was  to  the  other.  .  .  . 
They  were  left  together  presently,  and  the  search  for 
treasure  began  at  once : 

".  .  .  .  The  present  is  a  time  of  readjustment  be 
tween  men  and  women,"  he  was  saying.  "  It  seems  to 
me  that  the  great  mistake  people  make — men  and  women 
alike — is  that  each  sex  tries  to  raise  itself  by  lowering 
the  other.  It  hardly  could  be  any  other  way  just  now, 
and  at  first — with  woman  filled  with  the  turmoil  of 
emerging  from  ages  of  oppression — fighting  back  the 
old  and  fitting  to  the  new.  But  in  man  and  woman — 
not  in  either  alone — lies  completion.  If  the  two  do  not 
quite  complete  each  other,  a  Third  often  springs  from 
them  with  an  increased  spiritual  development." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  leaning  forward,  her  chin  fitted 
to  her  palms.  "  The  I-am  and  the  You-are-not  will  soon 
be  put  away.  I  like  to  think  of  it — that  man  and  woman 
are  together  in  the  complete  human.  There  is  a  glorious, 
an  arch-feminine  ideal  in  the  nature  of  the  Christ " 

"  Even  in  the  ineffable  courage,"  he  added  softly. 
"  That  is  woman's — the  finer  courage  that  never  loses 
its  tenderness.  .  .  .  His  Figure  sometimes,  as  now, 
becomes  an  intimate  passion  to  me " 

"As  if  He  were  near?" 

"  As  if  He  were  near — still  loving,  still  mediating 
— all  earth's  struggle  and  anguish  passing  through  Him 


282  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

and  becoming  glorified  with  His  pity  and  tenderness — 
before  it  reaches  the  eyes  of  the  Father.  .  .  .  There 
is  no  other  way.  Man  and  woman  must  be  One  in 
Two — before  Two  in  One.  They  must  not  war  upon 
each  other.  Woman  is  receptive ;  man  the  origin. 
Woman  is  a  planet  cooled  to  support  life;  man,  still 
an  incandescent  sun,  generates  the  life." 

"  That  is  clear  and  inspiring,"  she  said.  "  I  have 
always  wanted  it  said  just  like  that — that  one  is  as 
important  as  the  other  in  the  evolution  of  the  In 
dividual " 

"  And  for  that  Individual  are  swung  the  solar  systems. 
.  .  .  Look  at  Job — denuded  of  all  but  the  Spirit.  There 
is  an  Individual,  and  his  story  is  the  history  of  an 
Initiation.  .  .  .  We  are  coming  to  a  time  when  Mind 
will  operate  in  man  and  woman  conscious  of  the  Soul. 
When  that  time  comes  true,  how  the  progress  to  God 
will  be  cleared  and  speeded!  It  will  be  a  flight " 

"  Instead  of  a  crawl,"  she  finished. 

They  were  alone  in  the  big  dining-room.  Their 
voices  could  not  have  reached  the  nearest  empty  table. 
It  was  like  a  communion — their  first  communion. 

"  I  have  felt  it,"  she  went  on  in  a  strange,  low  tone, 
"  and  heard  the  New  Voices — Preparers  of  the  Way. 
Sometimes  it  came  to  me  in  New  York — the  stirring  of 
a  great,  new  spiritual  life.  I  have  felt  the  hunger — that 
awful  hollowness  in  the  breasts  of  men  and  women,  who 
turn  to  each  other  in  mute  agony,  who  turn  to  a  thousand 
foolish  sensations — because  they  do  not  realize  what 
they  hunger  for.  Their  breasts  cry  out  to  be  filled " 

"  And  the  Spirit  cries  out  to  flood  in." 

"Yes,  and  the  Spirit  asks  only  for  Earth-people  to 


The  Great  Trouble  283 

listen  to  their  inner  voices  and  love  one  another,"  she 
completed.  "  It  demands  no  macerations,  no  fetters,  no 
fearful  austerities — only  fineness  and  loving  kindness." 

"  How  wonderfully  they  have  come  to  me,  too — those 
radiant  moments — as  I  sat  by  my  study  window,  facing 
the  East,"  he  whispered,  not  knowing  what  the  last 
words  meant  to  her.  "  How  clear  it  is  that  all  great  and 
good  things  come  with  this  soul-age — this  soul-conscious 
ness.  I  have  seen  in  those  lovely  moments  that  Mother 
Earth  is  but  one  of  many  of  God's  gardens ;  that  human 
life  is  but  a  day  in  a  glorious  culture-scheme  which 
involves  many  brighter  and  brighter  transplantings ;  that 
the  radiance  of  the  Christ,  our  Exemplar,  but  shows 
us  the  loveliness  which  shall  be  ours  when  we  approach 
that  lofty  maturity  of  bloom " 

A  waiter  entered  with  the  word  that  a  man  from 
the  city,  Pere  Rabeaut,  desired  to  see  Mr.  Charter. 
Each  felt  the  dreadfulness  of  returning  so  abruptly  to 
sordid  exterior  consciousness — each  felt  the  gray  ghost 
of  Pelee. 

"  I  shall  go  and  see  what  is  wanted,  Miss  Wyndam, 
and  hurry  back — if  I  may  ?  "  he  said  in  a  dull,  tired 
tone.  * 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  said  "  Wyndam,"  and  it 
hurt  cruelly  at  this  moment.  ..."  No,  no,"  she  said 
rising  hastily.  "  It  would  spoil  it  to  come  back.  We 
could  not  forget  ourselves  like  that — so  soon  again.  It 
always  spoils — oh,  what  am  I  saying?  I  think  our  talk 
must  have  interested  me  very  much." 

"  I  understand,"  he  said  gently.  "  But  we  shall 
talk  again — and  for  this  little  hour,  my  whole  heart 
rises  to  thank  you." 


284  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

Pere  Rabeaut  was  waiting  upon  the  veranda.  Pecu 
liarly,  at  this  moment  he  seemed  attached  to  the  crook 
of  wine-shop  servitude,  which  Charter  had  never 
noticed  with  such  evidence  among  the  familiar  casks. 
Moreover,  disorder  was  written  upon  the  gray  face. 

"  Mon  Dieu,  what  a  day,  M.  Charter ! — a  day  of  judg 
ment  !  Soronia's  little  birds  are  dying !  " 

Charter  regarded  the  sharp,  black  eyes,  which  darted 
over  his  own  face,  but  would  not  be  held  in  any  gaze. 

"  I  heard  from  my  daughter  that  you  are  going  to 
the  craters  of  the  mountain,"  the  old  man  said.  "  '  He 
will  need  a  guide,'  said  I  at  once.  '  And  guides  are 
scarce  just  now,  for  the  people  are  afraid  of  Pelee. 
Still,  he's  an  old  patron,'  I  said  to  Soronia.  '  He  cannot 
go  to  the  mountain  without  a  guide,  so  I  shall  do  this 
little  thing  for  him.  He  must  have  our  Jacques.' " 

Charter  drew  him  away.  He  did  not  care  to  have 
it  known  at  the  Palms  that  he  was  projecting  a  trip  to 
the  summit.  Perhaps  the  inscrutable  Pere  Rabeaut  was 
conferring  a  considerable  favor.  It  was  arranged  that 
if  he  decided  to  make  the  journey,  the  American  should 
call  at  the  wine-shop  for  Jacques  early  the  following 
morning.  Pere  Rabeaut  left  him  none  the  poorer  for 
his  queer  errand. 

Charter  avoided  Miss  Wyndam  for  the  rest  of  the 
day.  Beyond  all  the  words  of  their  little  talk,  had 
come  to  him  a  fullness  of  womanhood  quite  beyond  the 
dreamer.  As  he  remembered  the  lustrous  face,  the  com 
pletion  of  his  sentences,  the  mutual  sustaining  of  their 
thoughts,  their  steady,  tireless  ascent  beyond  the  need 
of  words ;  as  he  remembered  her  calms,  and  the  glimpses 
of  cosmic  consciousness,  her  grasp,  her  expression,  her 


The  Great  Trouble  285 

silences,  the  exquisite  refinement  of  her  face,  and  the 
lingering  adoration  in  her  eyes — the  ideal  of  the  Sky 
lark  was  so  clearly  and  marvellously  personified  that 
for  moments  at  a  time  the  vision  was  lost  in  the  living 
woman.  And  for  this,  Quentin  Charter  proposed  to 
suffer — and  to  suffer  alone. 

So  he  supped  down-town,  and  waited  for  Father 
Fontanel  at  the  parish-house.  The  priest  came  in  during 
the  evening  and  Charter  saw  at  once,  what  the  other 
never  could  have  admitted,  that  the  last  few  days  had 
borne  the  good  man  to  the  uttermost  edges  of  his  frail 
vitality.  Under  the  lamp,  the  beautiful  old  face  had 
the  whiteness  of  that  virgin  wax  of  Italian  hives  in 
which  the  young  queens  lie  until  the  hour  of  awakening. 
The  tired,  smiling  eyes,  deeply  shadowed  under  a  brow 
that  was  blest,  gazed  upon  the  young  man  with  a  light 
in  his  eyes  not  reflected  from  the  lamp,  but  from  his 
great  love — in  that  pure  fatherhood  of  celibacy.  .  .  . 

"  Ah,  no,  I'm  not  weary,  my  son.  We  must  have 
our  walks  and  talks  together  on  the  Morne  again.  .  .  . 
'When  old  Father  Pelee  rests  once  more  from  his  travail, 
and  the  people  are  happy  again,  you  and  I  shall  walk 
under  the  stars,  and  you  shall  tell  me  of  those  glorious 
saints,  who  felt  in  the  presence  of  God  that  they  must 
put  such  violent  constraint  upon  themselves.  .  .  .  When 
I  think  of  my  suffering  people — it  comes  to  me  that 
the  white  ship  was  sent  like  a  good  angel — and  how  I 
thank  that  noble  lady  for  taking  me  at  once  to  this 
great  rock  of  an  American,  who  bluffs  me  about  so 
cheerily  and  grants  all  things  before  they  are  asked. 
What  wonderful  people  you  are  from  America!  But  it 
is  always  so — always  these  good  things  come  to  me. 


286  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

Indeed,  I  am  very  grateful.  .  .  .  Weary? — what  a  poor 
old  man  I  should  be  to  fall  weary  in  the  midst  of  such 
helpers.  ..." 

Charter  sat  down  beside  him  under  the  lamp  and  told 
him  what  an  arena  his  mind  had  become  for  conflict 
between  a  woman  and  a  vision.  Even  with  the  writer's 
trained  designing,  the  tale  drew  out  with  an  oriental 
patience  of  weaving  and  coloring.  Charter  had  felt  a 
woman's  need  for  the  ease  of  disclosure,  and  indeed  there 
was  no  other  man  whom  he  would  have  told.  He  had 
a  thought,  too,  that  if  by  any  chance  Pelee  should  inter 
vene — both  the  woman  and  the  Skylark  might  learn.  He 
did  not  tell  of  his  plan  to  go  to  the  mountain — lest  he 
be  dissuaded.  In  his  mind  the  following  day  was  set 
apart — as  a  sort  of  pilgrimage  sacred  to  Skylark. 

"  Old  Pelee  has  shadowed  my  mind,"  Father  Fontanel 
said,  when  the  story  was  done.  "  I  see  him  before 
and  between  all  things,  but  I  shall  meditate  and  tell  you 
what  seems  best  in  my  sight.  Only  this,  my  son,  you 
may  know,  that  when  first  the  noble  lady  filled  my  eyes 
— I  felt  you  near  her — as  if  she  had  come  to  me  from 
you,  whom  I  always  loved  to  remember." 

Charter  bowed  and  went  his  way,  troubled  by  the 
shadow  of  Pelee  in  the  holy  man's  mind ;  and  yet  glad, 
too,  that  the  priest  had  felt  him  near  when  he  first  saw 
Miss  Wyndam.  It  was  late  when  he  reached  the  Palms 
yet  sleeplessness  ranged  through  his  mind,  and  he  did 
not  soon  go  to  his  room.  The  house  and  grounds 
were  all  his  own.  He  paced  the  veranda,  the  garden 
paths  and  drives;  crossed  the  shadowy  lawns,  brooded 
upon  the  rumbling  mountain  and  the  foggy  moon  high 
in  the  south.  ...  At  the  side  of  the  great  house  to 


The  Great  Trouble  287 

the  north,  there  was  a  trellis  heavily  burdened  with 
lianas.  Within,  he  found  the  orifice  of  an  old  cistern, 
partially  covered  by  unfixed  planking.  A  startling 
thought  caused  him  to  wonder  why  he  had  not  explored 
the  place  before.  The  moonlight,  faint  at  best,  gave 
but  ghostly  light  through  the  foliage,  yet  he  kicked  away 
a  board  and  lit  a  match.  A  heavy  wooden  bar  crossed 
the  rim  and  was  set  stoutly  in  the  masonry.  His  mind 
keenly  grasped  each  detail  at  the  exterior.  A  rusty 
chain  depended  from  the  thick  cross-piece.  He  dropped 
several  ignited  matches  into  the  chamber.  Slabs  of 
stone  from  the  side-walls  had  fallen  into  the  cistern, 
which  seemed  to  contain  little  or  no  water.  .  .  .  From 
one  of  the  native  cabins  came  the  sound  of  a  dog  bark 
ing.  A  shutter  clicked  in  one  of  the  upper  windows  of 
the  plantation-house. 


TWENTY-SECOND  CHAPTER 

CHARTER  MAKES  A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  THE  CRATERS 

OF  PELEE—ONE   LAST  DAY  DEVOTED  TO 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  OLD   LETTERS 

CHARTER  left  the  Palms  early  to  join  his  guide  at  the 
wine-shop.  He  had  kept  apart  from  Peter  Stock  for 
two  reasons.  The  old  capitalist  easily  could  have  been 
tempted  to  accompany  him.  Personally,  Charter  did  not 
consider  a  strong  element  of  danger,  and  a  glimpse  into 
the  volcano's  mouth  would  give  him  a  grasp  and  hand 
ling  of  the  throes  of  a  sick  world,  around  which  all 
natural  phenomena  would  assume  thereafter  an  admirable 
repression.  To  Peter  Stock  it  would  be  an  adventure, 
merely.  More  than  all  this,  he  wanted  to  go  to  the 
mountain  alone.  It  was  the  Skylark's  day;  and  for 
this  reason,  he  hurried  out  of  the  Palms  and  down  to 
the  city  without  breakfast.  ...  A  last  look  from  the 
Morne,  as  it  dipped  into  the  Rue  Victor  Hugo — at  a 
certain  upper  window  of  the  plantation-house,  where  it 
seemed  he  was  leaving  all  the  bright  valiant  prodigies 
of  the  future.  He  turned  resolutely  toward  Pelee — but 
the  Skylark's  song  grew  fainter  behind. 

Pere  Rabeaut's  interest  in  the  venture  continued  to 
delight  him.  Procuring  a  companion  was  no  common 
favor,  since  inquiries  in  the  town  proved  that  the  regular 
guides  were  in  abject  dread  of  approaching  the  Monster 
now.  Soronia,  Pere  Rabeaut,  and  his  new  servant 
awaited  him  in  the  Rue  Rivoli.  The  latter  was  a  huge 

288 


To  the  Craters  289 

Creole,  of  gloomy  visage.  They  would  not  find  any  one 
to  accompany  them  in  the  lower  part  of  the  city,  he 
said,  as  the  fear  there  was  greater  than  ever  since  the 
Guerin  disaster.  In  Morne  Rouge,  however,  they  would 
doubtless  be  able  to  procure  mules,  food,  and  other  ser 
vants  if  necessary,  for  a  day's  trip  to  the  craters.  All 
of  which  appeared  reasonable  to  Charter,  though  he 
wondered  again  at  the  vital  interest  of  Pere  Rabeaut, 
and  the  general  tension  of  the  starting. 

The  two  passed  down  through  the  city,  and  into  the 
crowd  of  the  market-place,  where  a  blithesome  little 
drama  unfolded.  Peter  Stock  had  apparently  been  talk 
ing  to  the  people  about  their  volcano,  urging  them,  no 
doubt,  to  take  the  advice  of  Father  Fontanel  and  flee 
to  Fort  de  France,  when  he  had  perceived  M.  Mondet 
passing  in  his  carriage.  Charter  saw  his  friend  dart 
quickly  from  the  crowd  and  seize  the  bridle.  Despite 
the  protestations  of  the  driver,  the  capitalist  drew  the 
vehicle  into  view  of  all.  His  face  was  red  with  the  heat 
and  ashine  with  laughter  and  perspiration.  Alarm  and 
merriment  mingled  in  the  native  throng.  All  eyes  fol 
lowed  the  towering  figure  of  the  American  who  now 
swung  open  the  door  of  the  carriage  and  bowed  low 
to  M.  Mondet. 

"  This,  dear  friends,"  Peter  Stock  announced,  as  one 
would  produce  a  rabbit  from  a  silk  hat, — "  this,  you  all 
perceive,  is  your  little  editor  of  Les  Colonies.  Is  he 
not  bright  and  clean  and  pretty?  He  is  very  fond  of 
American  humor.  See  how  the  little  editor  laughs !  " 

M.  Mondet's  smile  was  yellowish-gray  and  of  sickly 
contour.  His  article  relative  to  the  American  appealed 
to  him  now  entirely  stripped  of  the  humor  with  which 
19 


290  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

it  was  fraught  a  few  days  before,  as  he  had  composed 
it  in  the  inner  of  inner-offices.  This  demon  of  crackling 
French  and  restless  hands  would  stop  at  nothing.  M. 
Mondet  pictured  himself  being  picked  up  for  dead  pres 
ently.  As  the  blow  did  not  fall  on  the  instant,  the  sorry 
thought  tried  him  that  he  was  to  be  played  with  before 
being  dispatched. 

"  This  is  the  man  who  tells  you  that  Saint  Pierre 
is  in  no  danger — who  scoffs  at  those  who  have  already 
gone; — who  inquires  in  his  paper,  '  Where  on  the  Island 
could  a  more  secure  place  than  Saint  Pierre'  be  found 
in  the  event  of  an  earthquake  visitation  ? '  M.  Mondet 
advises  us  to  flee  with  all  dispatch  to  the  live  craters 
of  a  volcano  to  escape  his  hypothetical  earthquake." 
Peter  Stock  was  now  holding  up  the  Frenchman's  arm, 
as  a  referee  upraises  the  whip  of  a  winning  fighter. 
"  He  says  there's  no  more  peril  from  Pelee  than  from 
an  old  man  shaking  ashes  out  of  his  pipe.  I  proposed 
to  wager  my  ship  against  M.  Mondet's  rolled-top  desk 
that  he  was  wrong,  but  there  was  a  difficulty  in  the  way. 
Do  you  not  see,  my  friends  of  Saint  Pierre,  that,  if  I 
won  the  wager,  I  should  not  be  able  to  distinguish  be 
tween  M.  Mondet's  rolled-top  desk  and  M.  Mondet's 
cigarette  case  in  the  ruins  of  the  city " 

There  had  been  a  steady  growling  from  the  mountain. 

"  Ah !  "  Stock  exclaimed  after  a  pause,  "Pelee  speaks 
again !  '  I  will  repay — verily,  I  will  repay ! '  growls  the 
Monster.  Let  it  be  so,  then,  friends  of  mine.  I  will 
turn  over  my  little  account  to  the  big  fire-eater  yonder 
who  will  collect  all  debts.  I  tell  you,  we  who  tarry  too 
long  will  be  buying  political  extras  and  last  editions  in 
hell  from  this  bit  of  a  newspaper  man !  " 


To  the  Craters  291 

Charter  laughingly  turned  away  to  avoid  being  seen, 
just  as  M.  Mondet  was  chucked  like  a  large,  soft  bundle 
into  the  seat  of  his  carriage  and  the  door  slammed 
forcibly,  corking  whatever  wrath  appertained.  In  any 
of  the  red-blooded  zones,  a  foreigner  who  performed 
such  antics  at  the  expense  of  a  portly  and  respected 
citizen  would  have  encountered  a  quietus  quick  and 
blasting,  but  the  people  of  Martinique  are  not  swift  to 
anger  nor  forward  in  reprisal. 

Charter's  physical  energy  was  imperious,  but  the 
numbness  of  his  scalp  was  a  pregnant  warning  against 
the  perils  of  heat.  There  were  moments  in  which  his 
mind  moved  in  a  light,  irresponsible  fashion,  as  if  ob 
sessed  at  quick  intervals,  one  after  another,  by  mad  kings 
who  dared  anything,  and  whom  no  one  dared  refuse. 
Somehow  his  brain  contrived  with  striking  artifices  to 
keep  the  Wyndam-Skylark  conflict  in  the  background; 
yet,  as  often  as  he  became  aware  of  old  Vulcan  mutter 
ing  his  agonies  ahead,  just  so  often  did  the  reality 
rise  that  the  meaning  and  direction  of  his  life  was 
gone,  if  he  was  not  to  see  again  the  woman  at 
the  Palms. 

Jacques,  his  guide,  followed  in  sullen  silence.  They 
crossed  the  Roxelane,  and  presently  were  ascending 
toward  Morne  Rouge.  Saint  Pierre  was  just  still  enough 
now  to  act  like  a  vast  sounding-board.  Remote  voices 
reached  them,  even  from  the  harbor-front  to  the  left, 
and  from  shut  shops  everywhere.  ...  It  was  nearly 
mid-day,  when  he  rode  out  from  Morne  Rouge,  with 
three  more  companions. 

The  ash-hung  valley  was  far  behind,  and  Charter 
drank  deeply  of  the  clean,  east  wind  from  the  Atlantic. 


292  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

There  was  a  rush  of  bitterness,  too,  because  the  woman 
was  not  there  to  share  these  priceless  volumes  of  sunlit 
vitality.  All  the  impetus  of  enterprise  was  needed  now 
to  turn  the  point  of  conflict,  and  force  it  into  the 
background  again.  .  .  .  They  pushed  through  Ajoupa 
Boullion  to  the  gorge  of  the  Falaise,  the  northward 
bank  of  which  marked  the  trail  which  Jacques  chose  to 
the  summit. 

And  now  they  moved  upward  in  the  midst  of  the 
old  glory  of  Martinique.  The  brisk  Trades  blowing 
evenly  in  the  heights,  wiped  the  eastern  slope  of  the 
mountain  clear  of  stone-dust  and  whipped  the  blasts  of 
sulphur  down  into  the  valley  toward  the  shore.  Green 
lakes  of  cane  filled  the  valleys  behind,  and  groves  of 
cocoa-palms,  so  distant  and  so  orderly  that  they  looked 
like  a  city  garden  set  with  hen  and  chickens.  .  .  .  North 
ward,  through  the  rifts,  glistened  the  sea,  steel-blue  and 
cool.  Before  them  rose  the  vast,  green-clad  mass  of  the 
mountain,  its  corona  dim  with  smoke  and  lashed  by 
storm.  Down  in  the  southwest  lay  the  ghastly  pall,  the 
hidden,  tortured  city,  tranced  under  the  cobra-head  of 
the  volcano  and  already  laved  in  its  poison. 

The  trail  became  very  steep  at  two  thousand  feet,  and 
this  fact,  together  with  the  back-thresh  of  the  summit 
disturbance,  forced  Charter  to  abandon  the  animals.  It 
transpired  that  two  of  the  three  later  guides  felt  it  their 
duty,  at  this  point,  to  stay  behind  with  the  mules.  A 
little  later,  when  the  growling  from  the  prone,  upturned 
face  of  the  Monster  suddenly  arose  to  a  roar  that 
twisted  the  flesh  and  outraged  the  senses  of  man,  Charter 
looked  back  and  found  that  only  one  native  was  falter 
ing  behind,  instead  of  two.  And  this  one  was  Jacques, 


To  the  Craters  293 

of  the  savage  eyes.     Pere  Rabeaut  was  praised  again. 

Fascination  for  the  dying  Thing  took  hold  of  him 
now  and  drew  him  on.  Charter  was  little  conscious  of 
fear  for  his  life,  but  of  a  fixed  terror  lest  he  should  be 
unable  to  go  on.  He  found  himself  tearing  up  a  hand 
kerchief  and  stuffing  the  shreds  in  his  ears  to  deaden 
the  hideous  vibrations.  With  the  linen  remaining,  he 
filled  his  mouth,  shutting  his  jaws  together  upon  it,  as 
the  wheels  of  a  wagon  are  blocked  on  an  incline. 

The  titanic  disorder  placated  his  own.  He  became 
unconscious  of  passing  time.  From  the  contour  of  the 
slope,  remembered  from  a  past  visit,  he  was  aware  of 
nearing  the  Lac  des  Palmists,  which  marked  the  summit- 
level.  Yet  changes,  violent  changes,  were  everywhere 
evidenced.  The  shoulder  of  the  mountain  was  smeared 
with  a  crust  of  ash  and  seamed  with  fresh  scars.  The 
crust  was  made  by  the  dry,  whirling  winds  playing  upon 
the  paste  formed  of  stone-dust  and  condensed  steam. 
The  clicking  whir,  like  a  clap  of  wings,  heard  at  in 
tervals,  accounted  for  the  scars.  Bombs  of  rock  were 
being  hurled  from  the  great  tubes.  Here  he  shouted  to 
Jacques  to  stay  behind ;  that  he  would  be  back  in  a  few 
moments.  There  was  a  nod  of  assent  from  the  evil  head. 

That  he  was  in  the  range  of  a  raking  volcano-fire 
impressed  with  a  sort  of  laughing  awe  this  ant  clinging 
to  the  beard  of  a  giant.  Up,  knees  and  hands,  now,  he 
crawled — up  over  the  throbbing  chin,  to  the  black, 
pounded  lip  of  the  Monster.  Out  of  the  old  lake  coiled 
the  furious  tower  of  steam  and  rock-dust  which  mush 
roomed  in  high  heaven,  like  a  primal  nebula  from  which 
worlds  are  made.  It  was  this  which  fell  upon  the  city. 
Pockets  of  gas  exploded  in  the  heights,  rending  the 


294  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

periphery,  as  the  veil  of  the  temple  was  rent.  Only  this 
horrible  torrent  spreading  over  Saint  Pierre  to  witness, 
but  sounds  not  meant  for  the  ear  of  man,  sounds  which 
seemed  to  saw  his  skull  in  twain — the  thundering  en 
gines  of  a  planet. 

The  rocky  rim  of  the  lake  was  hot  to  his  hands  and 
knees,  but  a  moment  more  he  lingered.  A  thought  in 
his  brain  held  him  there  with  thrilling  bands.  It  was 
only  a  plaything  of  mind — a  vagary  of  altitude  and  im 
mensity.  "  Did  ever  the  body  of  a  man  clog  the  crater 
of  a  live  volcano?  "  was  his  irreverent  query.  "  Did  ever 
suicidal  genius  conceive  of  corrupting  such  majesty  of 
force  with  his  pygmy  purpose  ?  " 

There  he  lay,  sprawled  at  the  edge  of  the  universal 
mystery,  at  the  secret-entrance  to  the  chamber  of  earth's 
dynamos.  The  edge  of  the  pit  shook  with  the  frightful 
work  going  on  below,  yet  he  was  not  slain.  The  tor 
rent  burst  past  and  upward  with  a  southward  inclination, 
clean  as  a  missing  bullet.  The  bombs  of  rock  canted 
out  from  sheer  weight  and  fell  behind.  That  which  he 
comprehended — although  his  eyes  saw  only  the  gray, 
thundering  cataclysm — was  never  before  imagined  in  the 
mind  of  man. 

The  gray  blackened.  The  roar  dwindled,  and  his 
senses  reeled.  With  a  rush  of  saliva,  the  linen  dropped 
from  his  open  mouth.  Charter  was  sure  there  was  a 
gaping  cleft  in  his  skull,  for  he  could  feel  the  air  blow 
ing  in  and  out,  cold  and  colder.  He  tried  to  lift  his 
hands  to  cover  the  sensitive  wound,  but  they  groped 
in  vain  for  his  head.  With  the  icy  draughts  of  air,  he 
seemed  to  hear  faintly  his  name  falling  upon  bare 
ganglia.  For  a  second  he  feared  that  the  lower  part  of 


To  the  Craters  295 

his  body  would  not  respond ;  that  he  was  uncoupled  like 
a  beast  whose  spine  is  broken.  ...  It  was  only  a 
momentary  overcoming  of  the  gas,  or  altitude,  or  the 
dreadful  disorder,  or  all  three.  Yet  he  knew  how  he 
must  turn  back  if  he  lived.  .  .  .  His  name  was  called 
again.  He  thought  it  was  the  Reaper,  calling  forth  his 
ghost. 

"  Ouentin  Charter !  Quentin  Charter !  " 
Then  he  saw  the  Wyndam  woman  on  the  veranda 
of  the  Palms,  her  face  white  with  agony,  her  eyes  strain 
ing  toward  him.  .  .  .  Turning  hastily — he  missed  death 
in  a  savage,  sordid  reality.  Jacques  had  crept  upon  him, 
a  maniac  in  his  eyes,  dog's  slaver  on  his  lips.  A  rock 
twice  as  large  as  his  head  was  upraised  in  both  arms. 
With  a  muscular  spasm  one  knows  in  a  dream,  Charter's 
whole  body  united  in  a  spring  to  the  side — escaping 
the  rock.  Jacques  turned  and  fled  like  a  goat,  leaping 
from  level  to  level. 

Charter  managed  to  follow.  He  felt  weak  and  ill 
for  the  time,  as  though  Pelee  had  punished  him  for 
peering  into  matters  which  Nature  does  not  thank  man 
for  endeavoring  to  understand.  .  .  .  The  three  natives 
pressed  about  him  far  down  on  the  slope.  Jacques  had 
vanished.  The  sun  was  sinking  seaward.  Charter 
mounted  his  mule,  turning  the  recent  incident  over  in 
his  mind  for  the  manieth  time.  His  first  thought  had 
been  that  the  indescribable  gripping  of  the  mountain 
had  turned  mad  a  decent  servant,  but  this  did  not  stand 
when  he  recalled  how  Pere  Rabeaut  had  importuned  him 
to  accept  Jacques,  and  how  the  latter  had  fled  from  his 
failure.  Yet,  so  far  as  he  could  see,  there  was  no  reason 
in  the  world  why  a  conspiracy  to  murder  him  should 


296  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

have  origin  in  the  little  wine-shop  of  Rue  Rivoli.  It 
was  all  baffling  even  at  first,  that  a  rock  had  been  chosen, 
when  a  knife  or  a  pistol  would  have  been  effective.  This 
latter,  he  explained  presently.  There  was  a  possibility 
of  his  body  being  found;  a  smashed  head  would  fall 
to  the  blame  of  Pere  Pelee,  who  was  casting  bombs  of 
rock  upon  the  slopes ;  while  a  knife  or  a  bullet-wound 
on  his  body  would  start  the  hounds  indeed. 

He  rode  down  the  winding  trail  apart  from  the 
guides.  Darkness  was  beginning,  and  the  lights  of 
Ajoupa  Boullion  showed  ahead.  The  mountain  carried 
on  a  frightful  drumming  behind.  Coiling  masses  of 
volcanic  spume,  miles  above  the  craters,  generated  their 
own  fire;  and  lit  in  the  flashes,  looked  like  billows  of 
boiling  steel.  Charter  rode  upon  sheer  nerve — nerve 
at  which  men  had  often  wondered.  At  length  a  full- 
rigged  thought  sprang  into  his  mind,  which  had  known 
but  the  passing  of  hopeless  derelicts  since  the  first 
moment  of  descent.  It  was  she  who  had  called  to  save 
him.  The  woman  of  flesh  had  become  a  vision  indeed. 
The  little  Island  mule  felt  the  heel  that  moment.  .  .  . 
Charter  turned  back  to  the  red  moiled  sky — a  rolling, 
roaring  Hades  in  the  North. 

"  I  can't  help  it,  Skylark,"  he  murmured,  "  if  you 
will  merge  into  this  woman.  She  may  never  know  that 
a  man  fled  from  her  to  the  mountain  to-day,  and  is 
hurrying  back — as  to  the  source  of  all  beauty!  .  .  . 
Charter,  Charter,  your  thoughts  are  boiling  over " 

He  rode  into  the  streets  of  Morne  Rouge,  so 
over-crowded  now  with  the  frightened  from  the  lower 
city,  that  many  were  huddled  upon  the  highway  where 
they  would  be  forced  to  sleep.  Here  he  paid  the  three 


To  the  Craters  297 

guides,  but  retained  his  mule.  ...  On  the  down  trail 
again,  he  re-entered  the  bank  of  falling  ash  and  the 
sulphurous  desolation.  Evil  as  it  was,  the  taint  brought  a 
sense  of  proximity  to  the  Morne  and  the  Palms.  Saint 
Pierre  was  dark  and  harrowingly  still  under  the  throb 
bing  volcano.  The  hoof-beats  of  the  mule  were  muffled 
in  ash,  as  if  he  pounded  along  a  sandy  beach.  Often 
a  rousing  fetor  reached  the  nostrils  of  the  rider,  above 
the  drying,  cutting  vapor  from  Pelee,  and  the  little 
beast  shied  and  snorted  at  untoward  humps  on  the  high 
way.  War  and  pestilence,  seemingly,  had  stalked  through 
Saint  Pierre  that  day  and  a  winter  storm  had  tried 
to  cover  the  aftermath.  .  .  .  He  passed  through  Rue 
Rivoli,  but  was  far  too  eager  to  reach  the  Palms  to 
stop  at  the  wine-shop.  The  ugly  mystery  there  could 
be  penetrated  afterward.  Downward,  he  turned  toward 
the  next  terrace,  where  the  solitary  figure  of  a  woman 
confronted  him. 

"  Mr.  Charter !  "  she  cried.  "  And — you  are  able  to 
ride?" 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean,  Miss  Wyndam  ? "  he 
said,  swiftly  dismounting.  "  What  are  you  doing  'way 
up  here  alone — in  this  dreadful  suffocation  ?  " 

"  I  was  looking  for  a  little  stone  wine-shop " 

She  checked  herself,  a  scroll  of  horrors  spreading  open 
in  her  brain. 

"  It's  just  a  little  way  back,"  he  said,  in  a  repressed 
tone.  "  I  have  an  errand  there,  too.  Shall  I  show 
you?" 

"  No,"  she  answered  shuddering.  "  I'll  walk  with  you 
back  to  the  Palms.  I  must  think.  .  .  .  Oh,  let  us  hurry ! " 

He  lifted  her  to  the  saddle,  and  took  the  bridle-rein. 


TWENTY-THIRD   CHAPTER 

CHARTER  AND  STOCK  ARE  CALLED  TO  THE  PRIESTS 

HOUSE  IN  THE   NIGHT,  AND  THE  WYNDAM 

WOMAN  STAYS  AT  THE  PALMS 

PETER  STOCK  was  abroad  in  the  Palms  shortly  after 
Charter  left  for  the  wine-shop  to  join  Jacques,  for  the 
day's  trip.  The  absence  of  the  younger  man  reminded 
him  of  the  project  Charter  had  twice  mentioned  in  the 
wine-shop. 

"  I  can't  quite  understand  it,"  he  said  to  Miss  Wynd- 
am  as  he  started  for  the  city,  "  if  he  really  has  gone  to 
the  craters.  He  had  me  thinking  it  over — about  going 
along.  Why  should  he  rush  off  alone?  I  tell  you,  it's  not 
like  him.  The  boy's  troubled — got  some  of  the  groan- 
stuff  of  Pelee  in  his  vitals." 

The  day  began  badly  for  Paula.  Her  mind  assumed 
the  old  dread  receptivity  which  the  occultist  had  found 
to  his  advantage;  terrors  flocked  in  as  the  hours  drew 
on.  One  pays  for  being  responsive  to  the  finer  textures 
of  life.  Under  the  stimulus  of  heat,  good  steel  becomes 
radiant  with  an  activity  destructive  to  itself,  but  quite 
as  marvellous  in  its  way  as  the  starry  heavens.  What 
a  superior  and  admirable  endowment,  this,  though  it 
consumes,  compared  to  the  dead  asbestos-fabric  which 
will  not  warm.  Paula  felt  the  city  in  her  breast  that 
day — the  restless,  fevered  cries  of  children  and  the 
answering  maternal  anguish,  the  terror  everywhere,  even 
in  bird-cries  and  limping  animals — that  cosmic  sympathy. 

298 


Father  Fontanel  Fails  299 

She  knew  that  Charter  would  not  have  rushed  away 
to  the  mountain  without  a  "  good  morning  "  for  her,  had 
she  told  him  yesterday.  She  saw  him  turn  upon  the 
Morne,  look  steadily  at  her  window,  almost  as  if  he  saw 
the  outline  of  her  figure  there — as  the  call  went  to  him 
from  her  inner  heart.  .  .  .  She  had  reconstructed  his 
last  week  in  New  York,  from  the  letter  of  Selma  Cross 
and  his  own;  and  in  her  sight  he  had  achieved  a  finer 
thing  than  any  warrior  who  ever  broadened  the  borders 
of  his  queen.  Not  a  word  from  her;  encountering  a 
mysterious  suspicion  from  Reifferscheid ;  avoiding  Selma 
Cross  by  his  word  and  her  own;  vanquishing,  who 
may  know  how  many  devils  of  his  own  past;  and  then 
summoning  the  courage  and  gentleness  to  write  such 
a  letter  as  she  had  received — a  letter  sent  out  into  the 
dark — this  was  loyalty  and  courage  to  woo  the  soul. 
With  such  a  spirit,  she  could  tramp  the  world's  high 
way  with  bruised  feet,  but  a  singing  heart.  .  .  .  And 
only  such  a  spirit  could  be  true  to  Skylark;  for  she 
knew  as  "  Wyndam "  she  had  quickened  him  for  all 
time,  though  he  ran  from  her — to  commune  with  Pelee. 
She  felt  his  strength — strength  of  man  such  as  maidens 
dream  of,  and,  maturing,  put  their  dreams  away. 

"...  as  I  sat  by  my  study  window,  facing  the  East !  " 
Well  she  knew  those  words  from  his  letters ;  and  they 
came  to  her  now,  from  the  talk  of  yesterday  in  the 
high  light  of  an  angelic  visitation.  Always  in  memory 
the  dining-room  at  the  Palms  would  have  an  occult 
fragrance,  for  she  saw  his  great  love  for  Skylark  there, 
as  he  spoke  of  "  facing  the  East."  .  .  .  How  soon  could 
she  have  told  him  after  that,  but  for  the  evil  old  French 


300  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

face  that  drew  him  away.  ..."  You  deserve  to  suffer, 
Paula  Linster,"  she  whispered.  "  You  let  him  go  away, 
— without  a  tithe  of  your  secret,  or  a  morsel  of  your 
mercy." 

Inevitable  before  such  a  conception  of  manhood — 
Paula  feared  her  unworthiness.  She  saw  herself  back 
in  New  York,  faltering  under  the  power  of  Bellingham ; 
swayed  by  those  specialists,  Reifferscheid  in  books, 
Madame  Nestor  in  occultism;  and,  above  all  blame- 
worthily,  by  Selma  Cross  of  the  passions.  She  seemed 
always  to  have  been  listening.  Selma  Cross  had  been 
strong  enough  to  destroy  her  Tower;  and  this,  when 
the  actress  herself  had  been  so  little  sure  of  her  state 
ments  that  she  must  needs  call  Charter  to  prove  them. 
Nothing  that  she  had  done  seemed  to  carry  the  stamina 
of  decision.  ...  So  the  self-arraignment  thickened  and 
tightened  about  her,  until  she  cried  out: 

"  But  I  would  have  told  him  yesterday — had  not 
that  old  man  called  him  away !  " 

Peter  Stock  returned  at  noon,  imploring  her  to  go 
out  to  the  ship,  for  even  on  the  Morne,  Pelee  had  be 
come  a  plague.  He  pointed  out  that  she  was  practically 
alone  in  the  Palms;  that  nearly  all  of  Father  Fontanel's 
parishioners  had  taken  his  word  and  left  for  Fort  de 
France  or  Morne  Rouge,  at  least;  that  he,  Peter  Stock, 
was  a  very  old  man  who  had  earned  the  right  to  be 
fond  of  whom  he  pleased,  and  that  it  seriously  injured 
an  old  man's  health  when  he  couldn't  have  his  way. 

"  There  are  big  reasons  for  me  to  stay  here  to-day 
— big  only  to  me,"  she  told  him.  "  If  I  had  known  you 
for  years,  I  couldn't  be  more  assured  of  your  kindness, 


Father  Fontanel  Fails  301 

nor  more  willing  to  avail  myself  of  it,  but  please  trust 
me  to  know  best  to-day.     Possibly  to-morrow." 

So  the  American  left  her,  complaining  that  she  was 
quite  as  inscrutable  as  Charter.  .  .  .  An  hour  or  more 
later,  as  she  was  watching  the  mountain  from  her  room, 
a  little  black  carriage  stopped  before  the  gate  of  the 
Palms,  and  Father  Fontanel  stepped  slowly  out.  She 
hurried  down-stairs,  met  him  at  the  door,  and  saw  the 
rare  old  face  in  its  great  weariness. 

"  You  have  given  too  much  strength  to  your  work, 
Father,"  she  said,  putting  her  arm  about  him  and  help 
ing  him  toward  the  sitting-room. 

"  I  am  quite  well,"  he  panted.  "  I  was  among  my 
people  in  the  city,  when  our  amazing  friend  suddenly 
appeared  with  a  carriage,  bustled  me  in  and  sent  me 
here,  saying  there  were  enough  people  in  Saint  Pierre 
who  refused  to  obey  him,  and  that  he  didn't  propose 
that  I  should  be  one." 

"  I  think  he  did  very  well,"  she  answered,  laughing. 
"  What  must  it  be  down  in  the  city — when  we  suffer 
so  here?  We  cannot  do  without  you " 

"  But  there  is  great  work  for  me — the  great  work 
I  have  always  asked  for.  Believe  me,  I  do  not  suffer." 

"  One  must  not  labor  until  he  falls  and  dies, 
Father." 

"  If  it  be  the  will  of  the  good  God,  I  ask  nothing 
fairer  than  to  fall  in  His  service.  Death  is  only  terrible 
from  afar  off  in  youth,  my  dear  child.  When  we  are 
old  and  perceive  the  glories  of  the  Reality,  we  are  prone 
to  forget  the  illusion  here.  In  remembering  immortality, 
we  forget  the  cares  and  ills  of  flesh.  ...  I  am  only 


302  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

troubled  for  my  people,  stifling  in  the  gray  curse  of 
the  city,  and  for  my  brave  young  friend.  My  mind 
was  clouded  when  he  asked  me  certain  questions  last 
night;  and  to-day,  they  say  he  has  gone  to  the  craters 
of  the  mountain." 

"  What  for  ?  "  she  whispered  quickly. 

"Ah,  how  should  I  know?  But  he  tells  me  of 
people  who  make  pilgrimages  of  sanctification  to  strange 
cities  of  the  East — to  Mecca  and  Benares " 

"  But  they  go  to  Benares  to  die,  Father !  " 

"  I  did  not  know,  my  daughter,"  he  assured  her, 
drawing  his  hand  across  his  brow  in  a  troubled  fashion. 
"  He  has  not  gone  to  the  mountain  for  that,  though  I 
see  storms  gathering  about  him,  storms  of  the  moun 
tain  and  hatreds  of  men.  But  I  see  you  with  him  after 
ward — as  I  saw  him  with  you — when  you  first  spoke 
to  me." 

She  told  him  all,  and  found  healing  in  the  old  man's 
smile. 

"  It  is  well,  and  it  is  wonderful,"  he  whispered  at 
last.  "  Much  that  my  life  has  misunderstood  is  made 
clear  to  me — by  this  love  of  yours  and  his " 

"'And  his,'  Father?" 

"  Yes." 

There  was  silence.  She  would  not  ask  if  Quentin 
Charter  had  also  told  his  story.  Father  Fontanel  arose 
and  said  he  must  go  back,  but  he  took  the  girl's  hands, 
looked  deeply  into  her  eyes,  saying  with  memorable 
gentleness : 

"  Listen,  child, — the  man  who  cannot  forget  a  vision 
that  is  lost,  will  be  a  brave  mate  for  the  envisioned 
reality  that  he  finds." 


Father  Fontanel  Fails  303 

At  intervals  all  that  afternoon  she  felt  the  influence 
of  Bellingham.  It  was  not  desire.  Dull  and  impersonal, 
it  appealed,  as  one  might  hear  a  child  in  another  house 
repeatedly  calling  to  its  mother.  Within  her  there  was 
no  response,  save  that  of  loathing  for  a  spectre  that 
rises  untimely  from  a  past  long  since  expiated.  She  did 
not  ask  herself  whether  she  was  lifted  beyond  him,  or 
whether  he  was  debased  and  weakened,  or  if  he  really 
called  with  the  old  intensity.  Glimpses  of  the  strange 
place  in  which  he  lodged  occasionally  flashed  before  her 
inner  mind,  but  it  was  all  far  and  indefinite,  easily  to 
be  banished.  To  her,  he  had  become  inextricable  from 
the  reptiles.  There  was  so  much  of  living  fear  and 
greater  glory  in  her  mind  that  afternoon,  that  these  were 
but  evil  shadows  of  slight  account. 

The  torturing  hours  crawled  by,  until  the  day  turned 
to  a  deeper  gray,  and  the  North  was  reddened  by  Pelee's 
cone  which  the  thick  vapor  dimmed  and  blurred.  Paula 
was  suffered  to  fight  out  her  battle  alone.  She  could 
not  have  asked  more  than  this.  A  thousand  times  she 
paced  across  her  room ;  again  and  again  straining  her 
eyes  northward,  along  the  road,  over  the  city  into  the 
darkness,  and  the  end  of  all  things — the  mountain.  .  .  . 
There  was  a  moment  in  the  half-light  before  the  day  was 
spent,  in  which  she  seemed  to  see  Quentin  Charter,  as 
Father  Fontanel  had  told  her,  hemmed  in  by  all  the 
storms  and  hates  of  the  world.  Over  the  surface  of  her 
brain  was  a  vivid  track  for  flying  futile  agonies. 

The  rumbling  that  had  been  incessant  was  punctu 
ated  at  intervals  now  by  an  awesome  and  deeper  vibra 
tion.  Altogether,  the  sound  was  like  a  steady  stream 


304.  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

of  vehicles,  certain  ones  heavier  and  moving  more  swiftly 
than  others,  pounding  over  a  wooden  bridge.  To  her, 
there  was  a  pang  in  each  phase  of  the  volcano's  activity, 
since  Quentin  Charter  had  gone  up  into  that  red  roar- 
.  .  .  She  did  not  go  down  for  dinner.  When  it  was 
eight  by  her  watch,  she  felt  that  she  could  not  live,  if 
he  did  not  return  before  another  hour.  Several  minutes 
had  passed  when  there  was  a  tapping  at  her  door,  and 
Paula  answering,  was  confronted  by  a  sumptuous  figure 
of  native  womanhood.  It  was  Soronia. 

"  Mr.  Charter  is  at  the  wine-shop  of  Pere  Rabeaut 
in  Rue  Rivoli,"  she  said  swiftly,  hatefully,  as  though 
she  had  been  forced  to  carry  the  message,  and  would 
not  utter  a  word  more  than  necessary.  "  He  has  been 
hurt — we  do  not  think  seriously — but  he  wants  you  to 
come  to  him  at  once." 

"  Thank  you.  I  will  go  to  him  at  once,"  Paula  said, 
turning  to  get  her  hat.  "  Pere  Rabeaut's  wine-shop  in 
the  Rue  Rivolif  .  .  .  You  say  he  is  not  seriously 
hurt " 

She  had  not  turned  five  seconds  from  the  door,  but 
the  woman  was  gone.  There  was  much  that  was  strange 
in  this;  many  thoughts  occurred  apart  from  the  central 
idea  of  glad  obedience,  and  the  fullness  of  gratitude  in 
that  Pelee  had  not  murdered  him.  .  .  .  The  Rue  Rivoli 
was  a  street  of  the  terraces,  she  ascertained  on  the  lower 
floor;  also  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  procure  a 
carriage.  Mr.  Stock  had  been  forced  to  buy  one  out 
right,  her  informer  added,  and  to  use  one  of  his  sailors 
for  a  driver.  ...  So  she  set  out  alone  and  on  foot, 
hurrying  along  the  sea-road  toward  the  slope  where  Rue 


Father  Fontanel  Fails  305 

Victor  Hugo  began.  The  strangeness  of  it  all  persistently 
imposed  upon  her  mind,  but  was  unreckonable,  com 
pared  to  the  thought  that  Quentin  Charter  would  not 
have  called  for  her,  had  he  been  able  to  come.  From  this, 
the  fear  of  a  more  serious  wound  than  the  woman  had 
said,  was  inevitable. 

Paula  had  suffered  enough  from  doubting;  none 
should  mar  her  performance  now.  Unerringly,  the 
processes  of  mind  throughout  the  day  had  borne  her  to 
such  an  action.  She  would  have  gone  to  any  red-lit 
door  of  the  torrid  city.  .  .  .  Vivid  terrors  of  some  dread 
ful  crippling  accident  hurried  her  steps  into  running.  .  .  . 

Pelee,  a  baleful  changing  jewel  in  the  black  North, 
reminded  her  that  Charter  would  not  have  gone  up  to 
that  sink  of  chaos,  had  she  spoken  the  word  yesterday. 
The  thought  of  that  wonderful  hour  brought  back  the 
brooding  romance  in  tints  almost  ethereal.  Higher  in 
her  heart  than  he  had  reached  in  any  moment  of  the 
day's  fluctuations,  the  image  of  Charter  wounded,  was 
upraised  now  and  sustained,  as  she  turned  from  Rue 
Victor  Hugo  into  the  smothering  climb  to  the  terraces. 
All  she  could  feel  was  a  prayer  that  he  might  live;  all 
the  trials  and  conflicts  and  hopes  of  the  past  six  months 
hovered  afar  from  this,  like  navies  crippled  in  the  road 
stead.  .  .  . 

She  must  be  near  the  Rue  Rivoli,  she  thought,  sud 
denly  facing  an  empty  cliff.  It  was  at  this  moment  that 
she  heard  the  soft  foot-falls  of  a  little  native  mule,  and 
encountered  Quentin  Charter.  .  .  . 

Quickly  out  of  the  great  gladness  of  the  meeting 
arose  the  frightful  possibilities  from  which  she  had  just 
20 


306  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

escaped.  They  were  still  too  imminent  to  be  banished 
from  mind  at  once.  Again  Charter  had  saved  her  from 
the  Destroyer.  She  would  have  wept,  had  she  ventured 
to  speak  as  he  lifted  her  into  the  saddle.  Charter  was 
silent,  too,  for  the  time,  trying  to  adjust  and  measure 
and  proportion. 

Constantly  she  kept  her  eyes  upon  him  as  he  walked 
slightly  ahead,  for  she  needed  this  steady  assurance  that 
he  was  there  and  well.  She  felt  her  arms  where  his 
stiffened  fingers  had  been,  as  he  lifted  her  so  easily 
upon  the  mule.  She  wanted  to  reach  forward  and  touch 
his  helmet.  They  had  descended  almost  to  Rue  Victor 
Hugo,  when  he  said : 

"As  I  looked  down  the  fiery  throat  of  that  dragon 
up  there  to-day,  everything  grew  black  and  still  for  a 
minute,  like  a  vacuum.  .  .  .  Will  you  please  tell  me 
if  I  came  back  all  right,  or  are  we  '  two  hurrying  shapes 
in  twilight  land — in  no  man's  land  ?  ' ' 

His  amusing  appeal  righted  her.  "  I  have  not  heard 
of  donkey  shapes  in  twilight-land,"  she  answered.  .  .  . 
And  then  in  the  new  silence  she  tried  to  bring  her 
thoughts  to  the  point  of  revelation,  but  she  needed  light 
for  that — light  in  which  to  watch  his  face.  Moreover, 
revelations  contained  Bellingham,  and  she  was  not  quite 
ready  to  speak  of  this.  It  was  dreadful  to  be  forced 
to  think  of  the  occultist,  when  her  heart  cried  out  for 
another  moment  such  as  that  of  yesterday,  in  which  she 
could  watch  his  eyes  and  whisper,  "  I  am  very  proud 
to  be  the  Skylark  you  treasure  so.  ..." 

"  Do  you  think  it  kind  to  frighten  your  friends  ?  " 
she  asked  finally.  "  When  they  told  me  you  had  gone 
to  the  craters — it  seemed  such  a  reckless  thing  to  do " 


Father  Fontanel  Fails  307 

"  You  see,  I  rode  around  behind  the  mountain.  It's 
very  different  to  approach  from  the  north.  I  wished  you 
were  there  with  me  in  the  clean  air.  Pelee's  muzzle  is 
turned  toward  the  city " 

"  I  sent  you  many  cheers  and  high  hopes — did  they 
come  ?  " 

"  Yes,  more  than  you  know "  He  checked  him 
self,  not  wishing  to  frighten  her  further  with  the  story 
of  Jacques.  "  You  said  you  were  looking  for  the  little 
wine-shop.  Did  some  one  send  for  you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Some  one  you  know  ?  " 

"  They  told  me  you  were  there — hurt.  That's  why 
I  came,  Mr.  Charter." 

He  drew  up  the  mule  and  faced  her.  "  I  was  there 
this  morning,  but  not  since.  .  .  .  There's  something 
black  about  this.  Pere  Rabeaut  was  rather  officious 
in  furnishing  a  guide  for  me.  I'd  better  find  out " 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  go  back  there  to-night !  "  she 
said  intensely.  "  I  think  we  are  both  half-dead.  I  don't 
feel  coherent  at  all.  It  has  been  a  life — this  day." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  made  it  harder  for  you.  Cer 
tainly  I  shall  not  add  to  your  worry  to-night.  I  was 
thinking,  though,  it's  rather  a  serious  thing  to  call  you 
out  alone  at  this  hour,  through  a  city  disordered  like 
this — in  my  name." 

"  There's  much  need  of  a  talk.  We  shall  soon  under 
stand  it  all.  .  .  .  That  must  be  Mr.  Stock  coming. 
He  has  the  only  carriage  moving  in  Saint  Pierre,  they 
say." 

Charter  pulled  the  mule  up  on  the  walk  to  let  the 


308  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

vehicle  pass,  but  the  capitalist  saw  them  and  called  to 
his  driver  to  stop. 

"  Well,"  he  said  gratefully,  "  I'm  glad  to  get  down 
to  earth  again.  You  two  have  had  me  soaring.  .  .  . 
Charter,  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  you  called  Miss 
Wyndam  to  meet  you  in  the  wine-shop  ?  " 

"  No.  There's  a  little  matter  there  which  must  be 
probed  later.  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  meet  Miss 
Wyndam  before  she  reached  there." 

Paula  watched  Charter  as  he  spoke.  Light  from 
the  carriage-lamp  fell  upon  him.  His  white  clothing  was 
stained  from  the  saddle,  his  hair  and  eyebrows  whitened 
with  dust.  His  eyes  shone  in  a  face  haggard  unto 
ghastliness. 

"  I'd  go  there  now,"  Stock  declared,  after  asking 
one  or  two  questions  further,  "  but  I  have  to  report 
with  sorrow  that  Father  Fontanel  is  in  a  very  weak 
condition  and  has  asked  for  you.  I  just  came  from  the 
Palms,  hoping  that  you  had  returned,  and  learned  that 
Miss  Wyndam  was  mysteriously  abroad.  My  idea  is  to 
make  the  good  old  man  go  out  to  the  ship  to-night. 
That's  his  only  chance.  He  just  shakes  his  head  and 
smiles  at  me,  when  I  start  in  to  boss  him,  but  I  think 
he'll  go  for  you.  The  little  parish-house  is  like  a  shut- 
oven — literally  smells  of  the  burning.  .  .  .  The  fact  is, 
I'm  getting  panicky  as  an  old  brood-biddy,  among  all 
you  wilful  chicks.  .  .  .  Miss  Wyndam  has  promised 
for  to-morrow,  however." 

Her  heart  went  out  to  the  substantial  friend  he  had 
proved  to  every  one,  though  it  was  all  but  unthinkable 
to  have  Quentin  Charter  taken  from  the  Palms  that 
night. 


Father  Fontanel  Fails  309 

"  I'll  go  with  you  at  once,  but  we  must  see  Miss 
Wyndam  safely  back.  .  .  .  She'll  be  more  comfortable 
in  the  carriage  with  you,  and  we  can  hurry,"  Charter 
declared. 

He  held  his  arms  to  her  and  lifted  her  down. 

"  How  I  pity  you !  "  she  whispered.  "  You  are 
weary  unto  death,  but  I  am  so  glad — so  glad  you  are 
safely  back  from  the  mountain." 

"  Thank  you.  .  .  .  You,  too,  are  trembling  with 
weariness.  It  would  not  do,  not  to  go  to  Father  Fon 
tanel — would  it?" 

"No,  no!" 

At  the  hotel,  Charter  took  a  few  moments  to  put 
on  fresh  clothing.  Paula  waited  with  Peter  Stock  on 
the  lower  floor  until  he  appeared.  The  capitalist  did 
not  fail  to  see  that  they  wanted  a  word  together,  and 
clattered  forth  to  see  the  "pilot  of  his  deep-sea  hack." 

"  You'd  better  go  aboard  to-morrow  morning," 
Charter  said. 

' '  Yes,  to-morrow,  possibly, — we  shall  know  then. 
You  will  be  here  in  the  morning — the  first  thing  in  the 
morning?  " 

"  Yes."  There  was  a  wonder-world  of  emotion  in 
his  word. 

"  And  you  will  not  go  to  the  wine-shop,  before  you 
see  me — in  the  morning  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head.  His  inner  life  was  facing  the 
East,  listening  to  a  Skylark  song. 

"  There  is  much  to  hear  and  say,"  she  whispered 
unsteadily.  "  But  go  to  Father  Fontanel — or  I — or  you 
will  not  be  in  time!  He  must  not  die  without  seeing 
you — and  take  my  love  and  reverence " 


310  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

They  were  looking  into  each  other's  eyes — without 
words.  .  .  .  Peter  Stock  returned  from  the  veranda. 
Charter  shivered  slightly  with  the  return  to  common 
consciousness,  clenched  his  empty  left  hand  where  hers 
had  been. 

"  The  times  are  running  close  here,"  he  whispered 
huskily.  "  Sometimes  I  forget  that  we've  only  just 
met.  Father  Fontanel  alone  could  call  me  from  here 
to-night.  Somehow,  I  dread  to  leave  you.  You'll  have 
to  forgive  me  for  saying  it." 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  But  in  the  morning — oh,  come  quickly. 
.  .  .  Good-night." 

She  turned  hastily  to  the  staircase,  and  Charter's 
remarks  as  he  rode  townward  with  the  other,  were 
shirred,  indeed.  .  .  .., 


TWENTY-FOURTH   CHAPTER 

HAVING  TO  DO  ESPECIALLY  WITH  THE  MORNING 

OF  THE  ASCENSION,  WHEN  THE  MONSTER, 

PEL&E,  GIVES  BIRTH  TO  DEATH 

THE  old  servant  met  them  at  the  door  with  up 
lifted  ringer.  Father  Fontanel  was  sleeping.  They  did 
not  wish  to  disturb  him  but  sat  down  to  wait  in  the 
anteroom,  which  seemed  to  breathe  of  little  tragedies  of 
Saint  Pierre.  On  one  side  of  the  room  was  the  door 
that  was  never  locked;  on  the  other,  the  entrance  to 
the  sleeping-room  of  the  priest.  Thus  he  kept  his  ear  to 
the  city's  pulse.  Peter  Stock  drowsed  in  the  suffocating 
air.  Charter's  mind  slowly  revolved  and  fitted  to  the 
great  concept.  .  .  .  The  woman  was  drawn  to  him,  and 
there  had  been  no  need  of  words.  .  .  .  Each  moment 
she  was  more  wonderful  and  radiant.  There  had  not 
been  a  glance,  a  word,  a  movement,  a  moment,  a  breath, 
an  aspiration,  a  lift  of  brow  or  shoulder  or  thought,  that 
had  not  more  dearly  charmed  his  conception  of  her 
triune  beauty. 

The  day  had  left  in  his  brain  a  crowd  of  unassimilated 
actions,  and  into  this  formless  company  came  the  thrill 
ing  mystery  of  his  last  moment  with  her — a  shining 
cord  of  happiness  for  the  labyrinth  of  the  late  days.  .  .  . 
There  had  been  so  much  beyond  words  between  them — 
an  overtone  of  singing.  He  had  seen  in  her  eyes  all 
the  eager  treasure  of  brimming  womanhood,  rising  to 
burst  the  bonds  of  repression  for  the  first  time.  Dawn 
was  a  far  voyage,  but  he  settled  himself  to  wait  with 

311 


312  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

the  will  of  a  weathered  voyager  whose  heart  feels  the 
hungry  arms  upon  the  waiting  shore. 

The  volcano  lost  its  monstrous  rhythm  again,  and 
was  ripping  forth  irregular  crashes.  Father  Fontanel 
awoke  and  the  Rue  Victor  Hugo  became  alive  with 
voices,  aroused  by  the  rattling  in  the  throat  of  the 
mountain.  Charter  went  into  the  room  where  the  priest 
lay. 

"  Come,  Father,"  he  said.  "  We  have  waited  long 
for  you.  I  want  you  to  go  out  to  the  ship  for  the  rest 
of  the  night.  You  must  breathe  true  air  for  an  hour. 
Do  this  for  me." 

"  Ah,  my  son !  "  the  old  man  murmured,  drawing 
Charter's  head  down  to  his  breast.  "  My  mind  was 
clouded,  and  I  could  not  see  you  clearly  in  the  travail 
of  yesterday." 

"  Many  of  your  people  are  in  Fort  de  France,  Father," 
the  young  man  added.  "  They  will  be  glad  to  see  you. 
Then  you  may  come  back  here — even  to-morrow,  if  you 
are  stronger.  Besides,  the  stalwart  friend  who  has  done 
so  much  for  your  people,  wants  you  one  night  on  his 
ship." 

"  Yes,  my  son.  ...  I  was  waiting  for  you.  I  shall 
be  glad  to  breathe  the  dawn  at  sea," 

Peter  Stock  pressed  Charter's  hand  as  they  led 
Father  Fontanel  forth.  The  mountain  was  quieter 
again.  The  bells  of  Saint  Pierre  rang  the  hour  of  two. 
.  .  .  The  three  reached  the  Sugar  Landing  where  the 
Saragassa's  launch  lay. 

"  Hello,  Ernst,"  Stock  called  to  his  man.  "  I've  kept 
you  waiting  long,  but  top-speed  to  the  ship — deep  water 
and  ocean  air !  "• 


The  Wrath  of  Pelee,  313 

The  launch  sped  across  the  smoky  harbor,  riding 
down  little  isles  of  flotsam,  dead  birds  from  the  sky 
and  nameless  mysteries  from  the  roiled  bed  of  the 
harbor.  The  wind  was  hot  in  their  faces,  like  a  stoke 
hold  blast.  Often  they  heard  a  hissing  in  the  water, 
like  the  sound  of  a  wet  finger  touching  hot  iron.  A 
burning  cinder  fell  upon  Charter's  hand,  a  messenger 
from  Pelee.  He  could  not  feel  fire  that  night.  .  .  . 
He  was  living  over  that  last  moment  with  her — gazing 
into  her  eyes  as  one  who  seeks  to  penetrate  the  mystery 
of  creation,  as  if  it  were  any  clearer  in  a  woman's  eyes 
than  in  a  Nile  night,  a  Venetian  song,  or  in  the  flow 
of  gasolene  to  the  spark,  which  filled  the  contemplation 
of  Ernst.  .  .  .  He  remembered  the  swift  intaking  of  her 
breath  at  the  last,  and  knew  that  she  was  close  to 
tears. 

The  launch  was  swinging  around  to  the  Saragassa's 
ladder.  Father  Fontanel  had  not  spoken.  Wherever 
the  ship-lights  fell,  the  sheeting  of  ash  could  be  seen 
— upon  mast  and  railing  and  plates.  They  helped  the 
good  man  up  the  ladder,  and  Stock  ordered  Laird,  his 
first  officer,  to  steam  out  of  the  blizzard,  a  dozen  miles 
if  necessary.  The  anchor  chain  began  to  grind  at  once, 
and  three  minutes  later,  the  Saragassa's  screws  were 
kicking  the  ugly  harbor  tide.  Charter  watched,  strangely 
disconcerted,  until  only  the  dull  red  of  Pelee  pierced 
the  thick  veil  behind.  A  star,  and  another,  pricked  the 
blue  vault  ahead,  and  the  air  blew  in  fragrant  as  wine 
from  the  rolling  Caribbean,  but  each  moment  was  an 
arraignment  now.  .  .  .  He  wanted  none  of  the  clean 
sea;  and  the  mere  fact  that  he  would  not  rouse  her 


314  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

before  daylight,  even  if  he  were  at  the  Palms,  did  not 
lessen  the  savage  pressure  of  the  time.  .  .  .  Father 
Fontanel  would  not  sleep,  but  moved  among  his  people 
on  deck.  The  natives  refused  to  stay  below,  now  that 
the  defiled  harbor  was  behind.  There  was  a  humming 
of  old  French  lullabies  to  the  little  ones.  Cool  air  had 
brought  back  the  songs  of  peace  and  summer  to  the 
lowly  hearts.  It  was  an  hour  before  dawn,  and  the 
Saragossa  was  already  putting  back  toward  the  road 
stead,  when  Father  Fontanel  called  Charter  suddenly. 

"  Make  haste  and  go  to  the  woman,  my  son,"  he 
said  strangely. 

Charter  could  not  answer.  The  priest  had  spoken 
little  more  than  this,  since  they  led  him  from  the  parish- 
house.  The  Saragossa  crept  into  the  edge  of  the  smoke. 
The  gray  ghost  of  morning  was  stealing  into  the  hate 
ful  haze.  They  found  anchorage.  The  launch  was  in 
readiness  below.  It  was  not  yet  six.  Ernst  was  off  duty, 
and  another  sailor, — one  whose  room  was  prepared  in 
the  dim  pavilion — waited  at  the  tiller.  Charter  waved 
at  the  pale  mute  face  of  the  priest,  leaning  overside, 
and  the  fog  rushed  in  between. 

The  launch  gained  the  inner  harbor,  and  the  white 
ships  at  anchor  were  vague  as  phantoms  in  the  vapor 
— French  steamers,  Italian  barques,  and  the  smaller 
West  Indian  craft — all  with  their  work  to  do  and  their 
way  to  win.  Charter  heard  one  officer  shout  to  another 
a  whimsical  inquiry — if  Saint  Pierre  were  in  her  usual 
place  or  had  switched  sites  with  hell.  The  day  was 
clearing  rapidly,  however,  and  before  the  launch  reached 
shore,  the  haze  so  lifted  that  Pelee  could  be  seen,  float- 


The  Wrath  of  PeUz  315 

ing  a  pennant  of  black  out  to  sea.  In  the  city,  a  large 
frame  warehouse  was  ablaze.  The  tinder-dry  structure 
was  being  destroyed  with  almost  explosive  speed. 

A  blistering  heat  rushed  down  from  the  expiring 
building  to  the  edge  of  the  land.  Crowds  watched  the 
destruction.  Many  of  the  people  were  in  holiday  attire. 
This  was  the  Day  of  Ascension,  and  Saint  Pierre  would 
shortly  pray  and  praise  at  the  cathedral;  and  at  Notre 
Dame  des  Lourdes,  where  Father  Fontanel  would  be 
missed  quite  the  same  as  if  they  had  taken  the  figure 
of  Saint  Anne  from  the  altar.  .  .  .  Even  now  the 
cathedral  bells  were  calling,  and  there  was  low  laughter 
from  a  group  of  Creole  maidens.  Was  it  not  good  to 
live,  since  the  sun  was  trying  to  shine  again  and  the 
mountain  did  not  answer  the  ringing  of  the  bells?  It 
was  true  that  Pelee  poured  forth  a  black  streamer  with 
lightning  in  its  folds;  true  that  the  people  trod  upon 
the  hot,  gray  dust  of  the  volcano's  waste ;  that  the  heat 
was  such  as  no  man  had  ever  felt  before,  and  many 
sat  in  misery  upon  the  ground ;  true,  indeed,  that  voices 
of  hysteria  came  from  the  hovels,  and  the  weaker  were 
dying  too  swiftly  for  the  priests  to  attend  them  all — 
but  the  gala-spirit  was  not  dead.  The  bells  were  calling, 
the  mountain  was  still,  bright  dresses  were  abroad — 
for  the  torrid  children  of  France  must  laugh. 

A  carriage  was  not  procurable,  so  Charter  fell  in 
with  the  procession  on  the  way  to  the  cathedral.  Many 
of  the  natives  nodded  to  him ;  and  may  have  wondered 
at  the  color  in  his  skin,  the  fire  in  his  eyes,  and  the  glad 
ring  of  his  voice.  Standing  for  a  moment  before  the 
church,  he  hurled  over  the  little  gathering  the  germ 


316  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

of  flight;  told  them  of  the  food  and  shelter  in  Fort 
de  France,  begged  them  laughingly  to  take  their  women 
and  children  out  of  this  killing  air.  ...  It  was  nearly 
eight — eight  on  the  morning  of  Ascension  Day.  .  .  . 
She  would  be  ready.  He  hoped  to  find  a  carriage  at 
the  hotel.  ...  At  nine  they  would  be  in  the  launch 
again,  speeding  out  toward  the  Saragassa. 

Twenty  times  a  minute  she  recurred  to  him  as  he 
walked.  There  was  no  waning  nor  wearing — save  a 
wearing  brighter,  perhaps — of  the  images  she  had  put 
in  his  mind.  Palaces,  gardens,  treasure-houses — with 
the  turn  of  every  thought,  new  riches  of  possibility 
identified  with  her,  were  revealed.  Thoughts  of  her, 
winged  in  and  out  his  mind  like  bright  birds  that  had 
a  cote  within — until  he  was  lifted  to  heights  of  gladness 
which  seemed  to  shatter  the  dome  of  human  limitations 
— and  leave  him  crown  and  shoulders  emerged  into 
illimitable  ether. 

The  road  up  the  Morne  stretched  blinding  white  be 
fore  him.  The  sun  was  braver.  Panting  and  spent 
not  a  little,  he  strode  upward  through  the  vicious  pres 
sure  of  heat,  holding  his  helmet  free  from  his  head, 
that  air  might  circulate  under  the  rim.  Upon  the  crest 
of  the  Morne,  he  perceived  the  gables  of  the  old  plan 
tation-house,  above  the  palms  and  mangoes,  strangely 
yellowed  in  the  ashen  haze. 

Pelee  roared.  Sullen  and  dreadful  out  of  the  silence 
voiced  the  Monster  roused  to  his  labor  afresh.  Charter 
darted  a  glance  back  at  the  darkening  North,  and  be 
gan  to  run.  .  .  .  The  crisis  was  not  past;  the  holiday 
darkened.  The  ship  would  fill  with  refugees  now,  and 


The  Wrath  of  Pelez  317 

the  road  to  Fort  de  France  turn  black  with  flight.  These 
were  his  thoughts  as  he  ran. 

The  lights  of  the  day  burned  out  one  by  one.  The 
crust  of  the  earth  stretched  to  a  cracking  tension.  The 
air  was  beetling  with  strange  concussions.  In  the  clutch 
of  realization,  Charter  turned  one  shining  look  toward 
the  woman  hurrying  forward  on  the  veranda  of  the 
Palms.  .  .  .  Detonations  accumulated  into  the  crash 
of  a  thousand  navies. 

She  halted,  her  eyes  fascinated,  lost  in  the  North. 
He  caught  her  up  like  a  child.  Across  the  lawn,  through 
the  roaring  black,  he  bore  her,  brushing  her  ringers  and 
her  fallen  hair  from  his  eyes.  He  reached  the  curbing 
of  the  old  well  with  his  burden,  crawled  over  and  caught 
the  rusty  chain.  Incandescent  tongues  lapped  the  cis 
tern's  raised  coping.  There  was  a  scream  as  from  the 
souls  of  Night  and  Storm  and  Chaos  triumphant — a 
mighty  planetary  madness — shocking  magnitudes  from 
the  very  core  of  sound !  Air  was  sucked  from  the  vault, 
from  their  ears  and  lungs  by  the  shrieking  vacuums, 
burned  through  the  cushion  of  atmosphere  by  the  league- 
long  lanes  of  electric  fire.  .  .  .  Running  streams  of  red 
dust  filtered  down. 

It  was  eight  on  the  morning  of  Ascension  Day.  La 
Montague  Pelee  was  giving  birth  to  death. 


TWENTY-FIFTH  CHAPTER 

THE  SARAGOSSA    ENCOUNTERS  THE   RAGING  FIRE- 
MISTS  FROM  PELEE  EIGHT  MILES  AT  SEA, 
BUT  LIVES  TO  SEND  A  BOAT  ASHORE 

PETER  STOCK  stared  long  into  the  faint  film  of  smoke, 
until  the  launch  bearing  Charter  ashore  was  lost  in  the 
shipping.  The  pale,  winding  sheet  was  unwrapped  from 
the  beauty  of  morning.  There  was  an  edging  of  rose 
and  gold  on  the  far  dim  hills.  His  eyes  smarted  from 
weariness,  but  his  mind,  like  an  automatic  thing,  swept 
around  the  great  circle — from  the  ship  to  the  city,  to 
the  plantation-house  on  the  Morne  and  back  to  the  ship 
again.  He  was  sick  of  the  shore,  disgusted  with  people 
who  would  listen  to  M.  Mondet  and  not  to  him.  Miss 
Wyndam  had  refused  him  so  often,  that  he  was  half 
afraid  Charter  would  not  be  successful,  but  he  was  will 
ing  to  wait  two  hours  longer,  for  he  liked  the  young 
woman  immensely,  liked  her  breeding  and  her  brain. 
.  .  .  He  joined  Laird,  his  first  officer,  on  the  bridge. 
The  latter  was  scrutinizing  through  the  glass  a  blotch 
of  smoke  on  the  city-front. 

"What  do  you  make  of  it,  sir?"  Laird  asked. 

The  lenses  brought  to  the  owner  a  nucleus  of  red 
in  the  black  bank.  The  rest  of  Saint  Pierre  was  a 
gray,  doll-settlement,  set  in  the  shelter  of  little  gray 
hills.  He  could  see  the  riven  and  castellated  crest  of 
Pelee  weaving  his  black  ribbon.  It  was  all  small,  silent, 
and  unearthly. 

"  That's  a  fire  on  the  water-front,"  he  said. 
318 


The  Roadstead  Conflict  319 

"  That's  what  I  made  of  it,  sir,"  Laird  responded. 

Shortly  afterward  the  trumpetings  of  the  Monster 
began.  The  harbor  grew  yellowish-black.  The  shore 
crawled  deeper  into  the  shroud,  and  was  lost  altogether. 
The  water  took  on  a  foul  look,  as  if  the  bed  of  the  sea 
were  churned  with  some  beastly  passion.  The  anchor- 
chain  grew  taught,  mysteriously  strained,  and  banged  a 
tattoo  against  its  steel-bound  eye.  Blue  Peter  drooping 
at  the  foremast,  livened  suddenly  into  a  spasm  of  writh 
ing,  like  a  hooked  lizard.  The  black,  quivering  columns 
of  smoke  from  the  funnels  were  fanned  down  upon  the 
deck,  adding  soot  to  the  white  smear  from  the  volcano. 

"  Better  get  the  natives  below — squall  coming !  "  Peter 
Stock  said,  in  a  low  tone  to  Laird,  and  noted  upon  the 
quiet,  serious  face  of  this  officer,  as  he  obeyed,  an  ex 
pression  quite  new.  It  was  the  look  of  a  man  who 
sees  the  end,  and  does  not  wince. 

The  women  wailed,  as  the  sailors  hurried  them  be 
low  and  sealed  the  ways  after  them.  A  deep-sea  lan 
guage  passed  over  the  ship.  There  were  running  feet, 
bells  below,  muffled  cries  from  the  native-women,  quick 
oaths  from  the  sailors;  and  then,  Peter  Stock  felt  the 
iron-fingers  of  fear  about  his  heart — not  for  himself  and 
his  ship  eight  miles  at  sea,  but  for  his  good  young 
friend  and  for  the  woman  who  had  refused  to  come. 

A  hot,  fetid  breath  charged  the  air.  The  ship  rose 
and  settled  like  a  feather  in  a  breeze;  in  a  queer  light 
way,  as  though  its  element  were  heavily  charged  with 
air,  the  water  danced,  alive  with  the  yeast  of  worlds. 
The  disordered  sky  intoned  violence.  Pelee  had  set 
the  foundations  to  trembling.  A  step  upon  the  bridge- 


320  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

ladder  caused  the  American  to  turn  with  a  start. 
Father  Fontanel  was  coming  up. 

"  Oh,  this  won't  do  at  all,"  Peter  Stock  cried  in 
French.  "  We're  going  to  catch  hell  up  here,  and  you 
don't  belong." 

He  dashed  down  the  ladder,  and  led  the  old  man 
swiftly  back  to  the  cabin,  where  he  rushed  to  the  ports 
and  screwed  them  tight  with  lightning  fingers,  led  the 
priest  to  a  chair  and  locked  it  in  its  socket.  Father 
Fontanel  spoke  for  the  first  time. 

"  It's  very  good  of  you,"  he  said  dully,  "  but  what 
of  my  people  ?  " 

Stock  did  not  answer,  but  rushed  forth.  Six  feet 
from  the  cabin-door,  he  met  the  fiery  van  of  the  cataclysm, 
and  found  strength  to  battle  his  way  back  into  the  cabin. 
.  .  .  From  out  the  shoreward  darkness  thundered 
vibrations  which  rendered  soundless  all  that  had  passed 
before.  Comets  flashed  by  the  port-holes.  The  Sara- 
gossa  shuddered  and  fell  to  her  starboard  side. 

Eight  bells  had  just  sounded  when  the  great  thunder 
rocked  over  the  gray-black  harbor,  and  the  molten  vitals 
of  the  Monster,  wrapped  in  a  black  cloud,  filled  the 
heavens,  gathered  and  plunged  down  upon  the  city  and 
the  sea.  As  for  the  ship,  eight  miles  from  the  shore 
and  twelve  miles  from  the  craters,  she  seemed  to  have 
fallen  from  a  habitable  planet  into  the  firemist  of  an 
unfinished  world.  She  heeled  over  like  a  biscuit-tin, 
dipping  her  bridge  and  gunwales.  She  was  deluged  by 
blasts  of  steam  and  molten  stone.  Her  anchor-chain 
gave  way,  and,  burning  in  a  dozen  places,  she  was 
sucked  inshore. 


The  Roadstead  Conflict  321 

Laird  was  on  the  bridge.  Plass,  the  second  officer, 
on  his  way  to  the  bridge,  to  relieve  or  assist  Laird  as 
the  bell  struck,  was  felled  at  the  door  of  the  chart-room. 
A  sailor  trying  to  drag  the  body  of  Plass  to  shelter, 
was  overpowered  by  the  blizzard  of  steam,  gas,  and 
molten  stone,  falling  across  the  body  of  his  officer.  The 
ship  was  rolling  like  a  runaway-buoy. 

Peter  Stock  had  been  hurled  across  the  cabin,  but 
clutched  the  chair  in  which  the  priest  was  sitting,  and 
clung  to  an  arm  of  it,  pinning  the  other  to  his  seat. 
Several  moments  may  have  passed  before  he  regained 
his  feet.  Though  badly  burned,  he  felt  pain  only  in 
his  throat  and  lungs,  from  that  awful,  outer  breath  as 
he  regained  the  cabin.  Firebrands  still  screamed  into  the 
sea  outside,  but  the  Saragassa  was  steadying  a  trifle, 
and  vague  day  returned.  Stock  was  first  to  reach  the 
deck,  the  woodwork  of  which  was  burning  everywhere. 
He  tried  to  shout,  but  his  throat  was  closed  by  the  hot 
dust.  The  body  of  a  man  was  hanging  over  the  railing 
of  the  bridge.  It  was  Laird,  with  his  face  burned  away. 
There  were  others  fallen. 

The  shock  of  his  burns  and  the  terrible  outer  heat 
was  beginning  to  overpower  the  commander  when  Pugh, 
the  third  officer,  untouched  by  fire,  appeared  from  below. 
In  a  horrid,  tongueless  way,  Stock  fired  the  other  to 
act,  and  staggered  back  into  the  cabin.  Pugh  shrieked 
up  the  hands,  and  set  to  the  fires  and  the  ship's  course. 
Out  of  two  officers  and  three  sailors  on  deck  when 
Pelee  struck,  none  had  lived.  Peter  Stock  owed  his 
life  to  the  mute  and  momentary  appearance  of  Father 
Fontanel. 
21 


322  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

The  screaming  of  the  native-women  reached  his  ears 
from  the  hold.  Father  Fontanel  stared  at  him  with 
the  most  pitiful  eyes  ever  seen  in  child  or  woman.  Black 
clouds  were  rolling  out  to  sea.  Deep  thunder  of  a 
righteous  source  answered  Pelee's  lamentations.  The 
sailors  were  fighting  fire  and  carrying  the  dead.  The 
thin  shaken  voice  of  Pugh  came  from  the  bridge.  The 
engines  were  throbbing.  Macready,  Stock's  personal 
servant,  entered  with  a  blast  of  heat. 

"  Thank  God,  you're  alive,  sir !  "  he  said,  with  the 
little  roll  of  Ireland  on  his  tongue.  "  I  was  below, 
where  better  men  were  not.  .  .  .  Eight  miles  at  sea — 
the  long-armed  divil  av  a  mountain — what  must  the  in- 
fightin'  have  been !  " 

Peter  Stock  beckoned  him  close  and  called  huskily 
for  lint  and  oils.  Macready  was  back  in  a  moment 
from  the  store-room,  removed  the  cracked  and  twisted 
boots ;  cleansed  the  ashes  from  the  face  and  ears  of  his 
chief;  administered  stimulant  and  talked  incessantly. 

"  It's  rainin'  evenchooalities  out.  .  .  .  Ha,  thim 
burns  is  not  so  bad,  though  your  shoes  were  pretty 
thin,  an'  the  deck's  smeared  with  red-hot  paste.  It's  no 
bit  of  a  geyser  in  a  dirt-pile,  sure,  can  tell  Misther  Stock 
whin  to  come  and  whin  to  go." 

The  cabin  filled  with  the  odor  of  burnt  flesh  as  he 
stripped  the  coat  from  Stock's  shoulder,  where  an  in 
candescent  pebble  had  fallen  and  burned  through  the 
cloth.  Ointments  and  bandages  were  applied  before  the 
owner  said: 

"  We  must  be  getting  pretty  close  in  the  harbor  ?  " 

This   corked   Macready's   effervescence.     Pugh   had 


The  Roadstead  Conflict  323 

been  putting  the  Saragossa  out  to  sea,  since  he  assumed 
control.  It  hadn't  occurred  to  the  little  Irishman  that 
Mr.  Stock  would  put  back  into  the  harbor  of  an  island 
freshly-exploded. 

"  I  dunno,  sir.    It's  hard  to  see  for  the  rain." 

"  Go  to  the  door  and  rind  out." 

The  rain  fell  in  sheets.  Big  seas  were  driving  past, 
and  the  steady  beat  of  the  engines  was  audible.  There 
was  no  smoke,  no  familiar  shadow  of  hills,  but  a  leaden 
tumult  of  sky,  and  the  rollers  of  open  sea  beaten 
by  a  cloudburst.  The  commander  did  not  need  to  be 
told.  It  all  came  back  to  him — Laird's  body  hanging 
over  the  railing  of  the  bridge;  Plass  down;  Pugh,  a 
new  man,  in  command. 

"  Up  to  the  bridge,  Macready,  and  tell  Pugh  for  me 
not  to  be  in  such  a  damned  hurry — running  away  from 
a  stricken  town.  Tell  him  to  put  back  in  the  roadstead 
where  we  belong." 

Macready  was  gone  several  moments,  and  reported, 
"  Pugh  says  we're  short-handed ;  that  the  ship's  badly- 
charred,  but  worth  savin';  in  short,  sir,  that  he's  not 
takin'  orders  from  no  valet — meanin'  me." 

Nature  was  righting  herself  in  the  brain  of  the 
American,  but  the  problems  of  time  and  space  still  were 
mountains  to  him.  Macready  saw  the  gray  eye  harden, 
and  knew  what  the  next  words  would  be  before  they 
were  spoken. 

"Bring  Pugh  here!" 

It  was  rather  a  sweet  duty  for  Macready,  whose 
colors  had  been  lowered  by  the  untried  officer.  The  latter 
was  in  a  funk,  if  ever  a  seaman  had  such  a  seizure. 


324  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

Pugh  gave  an  order  to  the  man  at  the  wheel  and  fol 
lowed  the  Irishman  below,  where  he  encountered  the 
gray  eye,  and  felt  Macready  behind  him  at  the  door. 
"  Turn  back  to  harbor  at  once — full  speed !  " 
Pugh  hesitated,  his  small  black  eyes  burning  with 
terror. 

"  Turn  back,  I  say !    Get  to  hell  out  of  here !  " 

"  But  a  firefly  couldn't  live  in  there,  sir " 

"  Call  two  sailors,  Macready !  "  Stock  commanded, 
and  when  they  came,  added,  "  Put  him  in  irons,  you 
men !  .  .  .  Macready,  help  me  to  the  bridge." 

It  was  after  eleven  when  the  Saragassa  regained 
the  harbor.  The  terrific  cloudburst  had  spent  itself.  Out 
from  the  land  rolled  an  unctuous  smudge,  which  bore 
suggestions  of  the  heinous  impartiality  of  a  great  con 
flagration.  The  harbor  was  cluttered  with  wreckage,  a 
doom  picture  for  the  eyes  of  the  seaman.  Dimly,  fitfully, 
through  the  pall,  they  began  to  see  the  ghosts  of  the 
shipping — black  hulls  without  helm  or  hope.  The  Sara- 
gossa  vented  a  deep-toned  roar,  but  no  answer  was  re 
turned,  save  a  wailing  echo — not  a  voice  from  the 
wreckage,  not  even  the  scream  of  a  gull.  A  sailor 
heaved  the  lead,  and  the  scathed  steamer  bore  into  the 
rising  heat. 

Ahead  was  emptiness.  Peter  Stock,  reclining  upon 
the  bridge,  and  suffering  martyrdoms  from  his  burns, 
gave  up  his  last  hope  that  the  guns  of  Pelee  had  been 
turned  straight  seaward,  sparing  the  city  or  a  portion 
of  it.  Rough  winds  tunnelling  through  the  smoke  re 
vealed  a  hint  of  hills  shorn  of  Saint  Pierre.  A  cry  was 


The  Roadstead  Conflict  325 

wrung  from  the  American's  breast,  and  Macready  hast 
ened  to  his  side  with  a  glass  of  spirits. 

"  I  want  a  boat  made  ready — food,  medicines,  band 
ages,  two  or  three  hundred  pounds  of  ice  covered  with 
blankets  and  a  tarpaulin,"  Stock  said.  "  You  are  to 
take  a  couple  of  men  and  get  in  there.  Get  the  steward 
started  fitting  the  boat,  and  see  that  the  natives  are  kept 
a  bit  quieter.  Make  'em  see  the  other  side — if  they 
hadn't  come  aboard." 

"  Mother  av  God,"  Macready  muttered  as  he  went 
about  these  affairs.  "  I  could  bake  a  potatie  here,  sure, 
in  the  holla  av  my  hand.  What,  thin,  must  it  be  in 
that  pit  of  destruction?  "  He  feared  Pelee  less,  however, 
than  the  gray  eye,  and  the  fate  of  Pugh. 

The  launch  had  not  returned  from  taking  Charter 
ashore,  so  one  of  the  life-boats  was  put  into  com 
mission.  The  German,  Ernst,  and  another  sailor  of 
Macready's  choice,  were  shortly  ready  to  set  out. 

"  You  know  why  I'm  not  with  you,  men,"  the  com 
mander  told  them  at  the  last  moment.  "  It  isn't  that  I 
couldn't  stand  it  in  the  boat,  but  there's  a  trip  ashore  for 
you  to  make,  and  there's  no  walking  for  me  on  these  puff- 
balls  for  weeks  to  come.  Macready,  you  know  Mr. 
Charter.  He  had  time  to  reach  the  Palms  before  hell 
broke  loose.  I  want  you  to  go  there  and  bring  him  back 
alive — and  a  woman  who'll  be  with  him !  Also  report 
to  me  regarding  conditions  in  the  city.  That's  all. 
Lower  away." 

A  half-hour  later,  the  little  boat  was  forced  to  re 
turn  to  the  ship.  The  sailor  was  whimpering  at  the 
oars;  the  lips  of  Ernst  were  twisted  in  agony;  while 


326  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

Macready  was  silent,  sign  enough  of  his  failing  en 
durance.  Human  vitality  could  not  withstand  the  wither 
ing  draughts  of  heat.  At  noon,  another  amazing  down 
pour  of  rain  came  to  the  aid  of  Peter  Stock  who,  granting 
that  the  little  party  had  encountered  conditions  which 
flesh  could  not  conquer,  had,  nevertheless,  been  chafing 
furiously.  At  two  in  the  afternoon,  a  second  start  was 
made. 

Deeper  and  deeper  in  toward  the  gray  low  beach 
the  little  boat  was  pulled,  its  occupants  the  first  to  look 
upon  the  heaped  and  over-running  measure  of  Saint 
Pierre's  destruction.  The  three  took  turns  at  the  oars. 
Fear  and  suffering  brought  out  a  strange  feminine 
quality  in  the  sailor,  not  of  cowardice ;  rather  he  seemed 
beset  by  visionary  terrors.  Rare  running-mates  were 
Macready  and  Ernst,  odd  as  two  white  men  can  be, 
but  matched  to  a  hair  in  courage.  The  German  bent 
to  his  work,  a  grim  stolid  mechanism.  Macready  jerked 
at  the  oars,  and  found  breath  and  energy  remaining 
to  assail  the  world,  the  flesh  and  the  devil,  which  was 
Pugh,  with  his  barbed  and  invariably  glib  tongue.  How 
many  times  the  blue  eyes  of  the  German  rolled  back 
under  the  lids,  and  his  grip  relaxed  upon  the  oars ;  how 
many  times  the  whipping  tongue  of  Macready  mumbled, 
forgetting  its  object,  while  his  senses  reeled  against  the 
burning  walls  of  his  brain;  how  many  times  the  sailor 
hoarsely  commanded  them  to  look  through  the  fog  for 
figures  which  alone  he  saw — only  God  and  these  knew. 
But  the  little  boat  held  its  prow  to  the  desolate  shore. 

They  gained  the  Sugar  Landing  at  last,  or  the  place 
where  it  had  been,  and  strange  sounds  came  from  the 


The  Roadstead  Conflict  327 

lips  of  Ernst,  as  he  pointed  to  the  hulk  of  the  Saragassa's 
launch,  burned  to  the  water-line.  It  had  been  in  his  care 
steadily  until  its  last  trip.  Gray-covered  heaps  were 
sprawled  upon  the  shore,  some  half-covered  by  the  in 
coming  tide,  others  entirely  awash.  Pelee  had  brought 
down  the  city;  and  the  fire-tiger  had  rushed  in  at  the 
kill.  He  was  hissing  and  crunching  still,  under  the 
ruins.  The  sailor  moaned  and  covered  his  face. 

"  There's  nothing  alive ! "  he  repeated  with  dreadful 
stress. 

"  What  else  would  you  look  for — here  at  the  very 
fut  av  the  mountain?"  Macready  demanded.  "Wait 
till  we  get  over  the  hill,  and  you'll  hear  the  birds  singin' 
an'  the  naygurs  laughin'  in  the  fields  an'  wonderin'  why 
the  milkman  don't  come." 

The  market-place  near  the  shore  was  filled  with  the 
stones  from  the  surrounding  buildings,  hurled  there  as 
dice  from  a  box.  Smoke  and  steam  oozed  from  every 
ruin.  The  silence  was  awful  as  the  sight  of  death. 
The  streets  of  the  city  were  effaced.  Saint  Pierre  had 
been  felled  and  altered,  as  the  Sioux  women  once  altered 
the  corpses  of  the  slain  whites.  There  was  no  dis 
cernible  way  up  the  Morne.  Breathing  piles  of  debris 
barred  every  passage.  Under  one  of  these,  a  clock 
suddenly  struck  three — an  irreverent  survival  carrying 
on  its  shocking  business  beneath  the  collapsed  walls  of  a 
burned  and  beaten  city,  frightening  them  hideously. 
It  would  have  been  impossible  to  traverse  Rue  Victor 
Hugo  had  the  way  been  clear,  since  a  hundred  feet  from 
the  shore  or  less,  they  encountered  a  zone  of  unendurable 
heat. 


328  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

"  I  could  die  happy  holdin'  Pugh  here,"  Macready 
gasped.  "  Do  you  think  hell  is  worse  than  this,  Ernst, 
barrin'  the  effrontery  of  the  question?  Ha — don't  step 
there !  " 

He  yanked  the  German  away  from  a  puddle  of  un- 
congealed  stuff,  hot  as  running  metal.  .  .  .  The  sailor 
screamed.  He  had  stepped  upon  what  seemed  to  be  an 
ash-covered  stone.  It  was  soft,  springy,  and  vented  a 
wheezy  sigh.  Rain  and  rock-dust  had  smeared  all  things 
alike  in  this  gray  roasting  shambles. 

"Won't  somebody  say  something?"  the  sailor  cried 
in  a  momentary  silence. 

"  It  looks  like  rain,  ma'm,"  Macready  offered. 

They  had  been  forced  back  into  the  boat,  and  were 
skirting  the  shore  around  by  the  Morne.  Saint  Pierre 
had  rushed  to  the  sea — at  the  last.  The  volcano  had 
found  the  women  with  the  children,  as  all  manner  of 
visitations  find  them — and  the  men  a  little  apart.  Pelee 
had  not  faltered.  There  was  nothing  to  do  by  the  way, 
no  lips  to  moisten,  no  voice  of  pain  to  hush,  no  dying 
thing  to  ease.  There  was  not  an  insect-murmur  in  the 
air,  nor  a  crawling  thing  upon  the  beach,  not  a  moving 
wing  in  the  hot,  gray  sky — a  necropolis,  shore  of  death 
absolute. 

They  climbed  the  cliffs  to  the  north  of  the  Palms, 
glanced  down  through  the  smoke  at  the  city — sunken 
like  a  toothless  mouth.  Even  the  Morne  was  a  husk 
divested  of  its  fruit.  Pelee  had  cut  the  cane-fields, 
sucked  the  juices  and  left  the  blasted  stalks  in  his  paste. 
The  old  plantation-house  pushed  forth  no  shadow  of  an 
outline.  It  might  be  felled  or  lost  in  the  smoky  distance. 


The  Roadstead  Conflict  329 

The  nearer  landmarks  were  gone — homes  that  had 
brightened  the  heights  in  their  day,  whose  windows  had 
flashed  the  rays  of  the  afternoon  sun  as  it  rode  down 
oversea — levelled  like  the  fields  of  cane.  Pelee  had  swept 
far  and  left  only  his  shroud,  and  the  heaps  upon  the  way, 
to  show  that  the  old  sea-road,  so  white,  so  beautiful, 
had  been  the  haunt  of  man.  The  mangoes  had  lost 
their  vesture ;  the  palms  were  gnarled  and  naked  fingers 
pointing  to  the  pitiless  sky. 

Macready  had  known  this  highway  in  the  mornings, 
when  joy  was  not  dead,  when  the  songs  of  the  toilers 
and  the  laughter  of  children  glorified  the  fields;  in  the 
white  moonlight,  when  the  sea-winds  met  and  mingled 
with  the  spice  from  tropic  hills,  and  the  fragrance  from 
the  jasmine  and  rose-gardens.  .  .  .  He  stared  ahead 
now,  wetting  his  puffed  and  tortured  lips.  They  had 
passed  the  radius  of  terrific  heat,  but  he  was  thinking 
of  the  waiting  gray  eye,  when  he  returned  without  the 
man  and  the  woman. 

"  It'll  be  back  to  the  bunkers  for  Dinny,"  he  muttered. 
.  .  .  "  Ernst,  ye  goat,  you're  intertainin',  you're 
loquenchus." 

They  stepped  forward  swiftly  now.  There  was  not 
a  hope  that  the  mountain  had  shown  mercy  at  the 
journey's  end.  .  .  .  They  would  find  whom  they  sought 
down  like  the  others,  and  the  great  house  about  them. 
Still,  there  was  a  vague  God  to  whom  Macready  had 
prayed  once  or  twice  in  his  life — a  God  who  had  the 
power  to  strike  blasphemers  dead,  to  still  tempests,  light 
volcanic  fuses  and  fell  Babylons.  To  this  God  he 
muttered  a  prayer  now.  .  .  . 


330  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

The  ruins  of  the  plantation  house  wavered  forth 
from  the  fog.  The  sailor  plucked  at  Macready's  sleeve, 
and  Ernst  mumbled  thickly  that  they  might  as  well  get 
back  aboard.  .  .  .  But  the  Irishman  stood  forth  from 
them;  and  in  that  smoky  gloom,  desolate  as  the  first 
day,  before  Light  was  turned  upon  the  Formless  Void, 
bayed  the  names  of  Charter  and  the  woman. 

Then  the  answer: 

"In  the  cistern — in  the  old  cistern!" 

Macready  made  a  mental  appointment  with  his  God, 
and  yelled  presently :  "  Didn't  I  tell  you  'twould  take 
more  than  the  sphit  of  a  mountain  to  singe  the  hair 
of  him  ?  .  .  .  Are  you  hurted,  sir  ?  " 


TWENTY-SIXTH   CHAPTER 

PAULA  AND  CHARTER  IN  SEVERAL   SETTINGS  FEEL 

THE  ENERGY  OF  THE  GREAT  GOOD  THAT 

DRIVES   THE  WORLD 

CHARTER  roused,  after  an  unknown  time,  to  the 
realization  that  the  woman  was  in  his  arms;  later,  that 
he  was  sitting  upon  a  slimy  stone  in  a  subterranean  cell 
filled  with  steam.  The  slab  of  stone  held  him  free  from 
the  four  or  five  inches  of  almost  scalding  water  on  the 
floor  of  the  cistern.  The  vault  was  square,  and  luckily 
much  larger  than  its  circular  orifice ;  so  that  back  in  the 
corner  they  were  free  from  the  volcanic  discharge  which 
had  showered  down  through  the  mouth  of  the  pit — the 
cause  of  the  heated  water  and  the  released  vapors.  An 
earthquake  years  before  had  loosened  the  stone-lining 
of  the  vault.  With  every  shudder  of  the  earth  now, 
under  the  wrath  of  Pelee,  the  walls,  still  upstanding, 
trembled. 

Charter  was  given  much  time  to  observe  these  mat 
ters  ;  and  to  reckon  with  mere  surface  disorders,  such 
as  a  bleeding  right  hand,  lacerated  from  the  rusty  chain ; 
a  torn  shoulder,  and  a  variety  of  burns  which  he  promptly 
decided  must  be  inconsequential,  since  they  stung  so  in 
the  hot  vapor.  Then,  someone  with  a  powerful  arm 
was  knocking  out  three-cushion  caroms  in  his  brain 
pan.  This  spoiled  good  thinking  results.  It  is  true,  he 
did  not  grasp  the  points  of  the  position,  with  the  re 
motest  trace  of  the  sequence  in  which  they  are  put  down. 

831 


332  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

Indeed,  his  mind,  emerging  from  the  depths  into  which 
the  shock  of  eruption  had  felled  it,  held  alone  with  any 
persistence  the  all-enfolding  miracle  that  the  woman  was 
in  his  arms.  .  .  . 

Presently,  his  brain  began  to  sort  the  side-issues. 
Her  head  had  lain  upon  his  shoulder  during  that  pre 
cipitous  plunge,  and  her  hair  had  fallen  when  he  first 
caught  her  up.  He  remembered  it  blowing  and  covering 
his  eyes  in  a  manner  of  playful  endearment  quite  im 
possible  for  an  outsider  to  conceive.  Meanwhile,  the 
blast  from  Pelee  was  upon  the  city;  traversing  the  six 
miles  from  the  crater  to  the  Morne,  faster  than  its  own 
sound;  six  miles  in  little  more  than  the  time  it  had 
taken  him  to  cross  the  lawn  from  the  veranda  to  the 
cistern.  A  second  or  two  had  saved  them. 

The  fire  had  touched  her  hair.  .  .  .  Her  bare  arm 
brushed  his  cheek,  and  his  whole  nature  suddenly  crawled 
with  the  fear  that  she  might  not  wake.  His  head 
dropped  to  her  breast,  and  he  heard  her  heart,  light  and 
steadily  on  its  way.  His  eyes  were  straining  through 
the  darkness  into  her  face,  but  he  could  not  be  sure 
it  was  without  burns.  There  was  cumulative  harshness 
in  the  fear  that  her  face,  so  fragile,  of  purest  line,  should 
meet  the  coarse  element,  burning  dirt.  His  hands  were 
not  free,  but  he  touched  her  eyes,  and  knew  that  they 
were  whole.  .  .  .  She  sighed,  stirred  and  winced  a  little 
— breath  of  consciousness  returning.  Then  he  heard: 

"What  is  this  dripping  darkness?" 

The  words  were  slowly  uttered,  and  the  tones  soft 
and  vague,  as  from  one  dreaming,  or  very  close  to  the 
Gates.  .  .  .  In  a  great  dark  room  somewhere,  in  a  past 


Hearts  Resurgent  333 

life,  perhaps,  he  had  heard  such  a  voice  from  someone 

lying  in  the  shadows. 

"  We  are  in  the  old  cistern — you  and  I " 

"  I — knew — you — would — come — for — me. " 

It  was  murmured  as  from  someone  very  weary,  very 

happy — as  a  child  falling  asleep  after  a  dream,  murmurs 

with  a  little  contented  nestle  under  the  mother-wing. 
"  But  how  could  you  know  ?  "  he  whispered  quickly. 

"  My   heart  was   too   full — to  take   a  mere  mountain 

seriously — until  the  last  minute " 

"  Skylarks — always — know! " 

Torrents  of  rain  were  descending.  Pelee  roared  with 
the  after-pangs.  Though  cooled  and  replenished  by 
floods  of  black  rain,  the  rising  water  in  the  cistern  was 
still  hot. 

"  It  was  always  hard  for  me  to  call  you  Wyndam " 

"  Harder  to  hear,  Quentin  Charter."  .   .   . 

"  But  are  you  sure  you  are  not  badly  burned  ?  "  he 
asked  for  the  tenth  time. 

"  I  don't  feel  badly  burned.  ...  I  was  watching 
for  you  from  the  window  in  my  room.  I  didn't  like  the 
way  my  hair  looked,  and  was  changing  it  when  I  saw 
you  coming — and  the  Black  behind  you.  I  tried  to  fasten 
it  with  one  pin,  as  I  ran  downstairs.  ...  It  fell.  It 
is  very  thick  and  kept  the  fire  from  me " 

"  From  us."  He  would  have  preferred  his  share  of 
the  red  dust. 

She  shivered  contentedly.  "What  little  is  burned 
will  grow  again.  Red  mops  invariably  do." 

"...  And  to  think  I  should  have  found  the  old 


334  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

cistern  in  the  night!  .  .  .  One  night  when  I  could  not 
sleep,  I  walked  out  here  and  explored.  The  idea  came 
then " 

"  I  watched  you  from  the  upper  window.  .  .  .  The 
shutter  wiggled  as  you  went  away.  It  was  the  next 
day  that  the  'fraids  got  me.  You  rushed  off  to  the 
mountain." 

Often  they  verged  like  this  beyond  the  borders  of 
rational  quotation.  One  hears  only  the  voices,  not  the 
words  often,  from  Rapture's  Roadway. 

"  Just  as  I  begin  to  think  of  something  Pelee  erupts 
all  over  again  in  my  skull " 

"  I  didn't  know  men  understood  headache  matters. 
.  .  .  Don't  you  think — don't  you  really  think — I  might 
be  allowed  to  stand  a  little  bit?" 

"  Water's  still  too  hot,"  he  replied  briefly. 

The  cavern  was  not  so  utterly  dark.  The  circle  of 
the  orifice  was  sharply  lit  with  gray.  .  .  .  They  lost 
track  of  the  hours ;  for  moments  at  a  time  forgot  physical 
distress,  since  they  had  known  only  mystic  journeys 
before.  .  .  .  They  whispered  the  fate  of  Saint  Pierre 
— a  city's  soul  torn  from  the  shrieking  flesh;  shadows 
lifted  from  the  mystery  of  the  little  wine-shop;  clearly 
they  saw  how  the  occultist,  his  magnetism  crippled,  had 
used  Jacques  and  Soronia;  and  Charter  recalled  now 
where  he  had  seen  the  face  of  Paula  before — the  photo 
graph  in  the  Bellingham-cabin  on  the  Panther.  .  .  . 
A  second  cloudburst  cooled  and  eased  them,  though  they 
stood  in  water.  ...  It  seemed  that  Peter  Stock  should 
have  made  an  effort  to  reach  them  by  this  time.  Save 
that  the  gray  was  unchangeable  in  the  roof  the  world, 


Hearts  Resurgent  335 

Charter  could  not  have  believed  that  this  was  all  one 
day.  The  power  which  had  devastated  the  city,  and  with 
unspent  violence  swept  the  Morne,  might  have  reached 
three  leagues  at  sea !  .  .  .  Above  all  these  probabilities 
arose  their  happiness. 

"  It  seems  that  I've  become  a  little  boy,"  he  said, 
"  on  one  of  those  perfect  Christmas  mornings.  Don't 
you  remember,  the  greatest  moment  of  all — coming 
downstairs,  partly  dressed,  into  the  room  They  had 
made  ready?  That  moment,  before  you  actually  see — 
just  as  you  enter  the  mingled  dawn  and  fire-light  and 
catch  the  first  glisten  of  the  tree  ?  .  .  .  I'm  afraid,  Paula 
Linster,  you  have  found " 

"  A  boy,"  she  whispered.  Her  face  was  very  close 
in  the  gray.  ..."  The  loved  dream-boy.  The  boy  went 
away  to  meet  sternness  and  suffering  and  mazes  of 
misdirection — had  to  compromise  with  the  world  to  fit  at 
all.  Ah,  I  have  waited  long,  and  the  man  has  come 
back  to  me — a  boy." 

"La  Montague  Pelee  is  artistic." 

"  It  may  be  in  this  marvellous  world,  where  men 
carry  on  their  wars  and  their  wooings,"  she  went  on 
strangely,  "  some  pursuing  their  little  ways  of  darkness, 
some  bursting  into  blooms  of  valor  and  tenderness; — 
it  may  be  that  two  of  Earth's  people,  after  a  dreadful 
passage  through  agony  and  terror,  have  been  restored  to 
each  other — as  we  are.  It  may  be  that  in  the  roll  of 
Earth's  tableaux,  another  such  film  is  curled  away  from 
another  age  and  another  cataclysm." 

"  Paula,"  he  declared,  after  a  moment,  "  I  have  found 
a  Living  Truth  in  this  happiness — the  Great  Good  that 


336  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

Drives  the  World!  I  think  I  shall  not  lose  it  again. 
Glimpses  of  it  came  to  me  facing  the  East — as  I  wrote 
and  thought  of  you.  One  glimpse  was  so  clear  that  I 
expressed  it  in  a  letter,  '  I  tell  you  there  is  no  death,  since 
I  have  heard  the  Skylark  sing/  ...  I  lost  the  bright 
fragment,  for  a  few  days  in  New  York — battled  for 
the  prize  again  both  in  New  York  and  yesterday  at  the 
mountain.  To-day  has  brought  it  to  me — always  to 
keep.  It  is  this:  Were  you  to  die,  I  should  love  you 
and  know  you  were  near.  This  is  love  above  Flesh  and 
Death — the  old  mystifying  Interchangeables.  This  hap 
piness  is  the  triumph  over  death.  It  is  a  revelation,  a 
mighty  adoring — not  a  mere  woman  in  my  arms,  but 
an  ineffable  issue  of  eternity.  A  woman,  but  more — 
Love  and  Labor  and  Life  and  the  Great  Good  that 
Drives  the  World!  This  is  the  happiness  I  have  and 
hold  to-day :  Though  you  died,  I  should  know  that  you 
lived  and  were  mine." 

"  I  see  it — it  is  the  triumph  over  death — but,  Quentin 
Charter — I  want  you  still !  " 

"  Don't  you  see,  it  is  the  strength  you  give  me ! — 
that  girds  me  to  say  such  things  ?  " 

So  they  had  their  flights  into  silence,  while  the 
eternal  gray  lived  in  their  round  summit  of  sky — until 
the  voices  of  the  rescuers  and  their  own  grateful  answers. 
.  .  .  The  sailor  was  sent  back  to  the  boat  for  rope,  while 
Macready  cheered  them  with  a  fine  and  soothing  Gaelic 
oil.  .  .  .  They  lifted  Paula,  who  steadied  and  helped 
herself  by  the  chain;  then  sent  the  noose  down  for 
Charter. 

"  Have  you  the  strent',  sir,  to  do  the  overhand  up 


Hearts  Resurgent  337 

the  chain  ?  "  Macready  questioned,  and  added  in  a  ghost's 
whisper,  "  with  the  fairest  of  tin  thousand  waitin'  at 
the  top?" 

Charter  laughed.  To  lift  his  right  arm  was  thrash 
ing  pain,  but  he  made  it  easy  as  he  could  for  them; 
and  in  the  gray  light  faced  the  woman. 

She  saw  his  lacerated  hand,  the  mire,  fire-blisters 
upon  his  face,  the  blood  upon  his  clothing,  swollen  veins 
of  throat  and  temples,  and  the  glowing  adoration  in 
his  eyes.  .  .  .  She  had  bound  her  hair,  and  there  was 
much  still  to  bind.  No  mortal  hurt  was  visible.  Be 
hind  her  was  the  falling  sea.  On  her  right  hand  the 
smoking  ruin  of  the  Palms;  to  the  left,  Pelee  and  his 
tens  of  thousands  slain ;  above,  the  hot,  leaden,  hurrying 
clouds.  .  .  .  Ernst,  Macready  and  the  sailor  moved 
discreetly  away.  Backs  turned,  they  watched  the  puffs 
of  smoke  and  steam  that  rose  like  gray-white  birds 
from  the  valley  of  the  dead  city. 

"  Ernst,  lad,"  said  Macready,  "  the  boss  and  the 
leadin'  lady  are  havin'  an  intellekchool  repast  in  the 
cinter  av  the  stage  by  the  old  well.  Bear  in  mind  you're 
a  chorus  girl  and  conduct  yourself  in  accord.  Have  you 
a  drop  left  in  the  heel  av  the  flask,  Adele,  dear?  " 

They  were  nearing  the  Saragossa  in  the  dusk,  and 
their  call  had  been  answered  with  a  rousing  cheer  from 
the  ship.  .  .  . 

"  Please,  sir,  you  said  you  would  take  me  sailing," 
Paula  called,  as  she  reached  the  head  of  the  ladder. 

Though  he  could  not  stand,  Peter  Stock  had  an 
arm  for  each;  and  they  were  only  released  to  fall  into 
22 


338  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

the  embrace  of  Father  Fontanel.  They  saw  it  now  in 
the  ship's  light:  Pelee  had  stricken  the  old  priest,  but 
not  with  fire.  .  .  .  The  two  were  together  shortly  after 
ward  at  supper,  in  clean  dry  make-shifts,  very  ludicrous. 

"  I  came  to  you  empty-handed,  and  soiled  from  the 
travail  of  the  journey,"  she  whispered.  "  All  but  my 
self  was  in  a  certain  room  that  faced  the  North." 

"  There  are  booties,  flounces  and  ribands  in  the  shops 
of  Fort  de  France,"  Charter  replied  with  delight.  "  Peter 
Stock  shall  be  allowed  certain  privileges,  but  not  to 
make  any  such  purchases.  I  carry  circular  notes — 
and  insist  on  straightening  them  out." 

"  Haven't  you  discovered  that  Skylarks  are  not  of 
the  insisting  kind — even  when  they  need  new  plumage? 
Anything  that  looks  like  insistence  nearly  scares  the  life 
out  of  them.  Isn't  it  a  dear  world  ?  " 

All  this  was  smoothly  coherent  to  him.  .  .  .  Alone 
that  night,  they  drew  deck-chairs  close  together  forward ; 
and  snugly  wrapped,  would  have  nothing  whatever  to 
do  with  Peter  Stock's  sumptuous  cabins.  They  needed 
floods  of  rest,  but  were  too  happy,  save  just  to  take 
little  sips  of  sleep  between  talk. 

"  You  must  have  been  afraid  at  first,"  she  said,  "  of 
turning  a  foolish  person's  head  with  all  that  beauty  of 
praise  in  your  letters.  ...  I  think  you  were  writing  to 
some  image  you  wanted  to  believe  lived  somewhere,  but 
had  little  hope  ever  really  to  find.  I  could  not  take  it 
all  home  to  me  at  first.  ...  I  felt  that  you  were  writing 
to  a  lovely,  shadowy  sister  who  was  safely  put  away 
in  a  kind  of  twilight  faery — a  little  figure  by  a  well  of 
magical  waters.  Sometimes  I  could  go  to  her,  reach 


Hearts  Resurgent  339 

the  well,  but  I  could  not  drink  at  first — only  listen  to 
the  music  of  the  water,  watch  it  bubble  and  flash  in  the 
moon." 

"  I  love  your  mind,  Paula  Linster,"  he  said  suddenly, 
" — every  phase  of  it.  By  the  way — love's  a  word  I  never 
used  before  to-day — not  even  in  my  work,  save  as  an 
abstraction." 

She  remembered  that  Selma  Cross  had  said  this  of 
him — that  he  never  used  that  word. 

"  You  could  not  have  said  that  to  '  Wyndam ' " 

"  Yes — for  Skylark  was  singing  more  and  more  about 
her.  I  soon  should  have  had  to  say  it  to  *  Wyndam.'  " 

"  I  loved  your  fidelity  to  Skylark,"  she  told  him 
softly. 

Dust  of  Pelee  would  fall  upon  the  archipelago  for 
weeks,  but  this  of  starless  dark  was  their  supreme  night. 
"  Feel  the  sting  of  the  spray,"  he  commanded.  "  Hear 
the  bows  sing!  .  .  .  It's  all  for  us — the  loveliest  of 
earth's  distances  and  the  sky  afterward " 

"  But  behind,"  she  whispered  pitifully. 

"  Yes — Pelee  '  splashed  at  a  ten-league  canvas  with 
brushes  of  comet's  hair.'  " 

The  next  night  had  fallen,  and  the  two  were  through 
with  the  shops  of  Fort  de  France.  Paula's  dress  was 
white  and  lustrous,  a  strange  native  fabric  which  the 
man  regarded  with  seriousness  and  awe.  He  was  in 
white,  too.  His  right  hand  was  swathed  for  repairs, 
the  arm  slung,  and  a  thickness  of  lint  was  fitted  under 
his  collar.  About  his  eyes  and  mouth  was  a  slight  look 
of  strain  still,  which  could  not  live  another  day  before 


340  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

the  force  of  recuperative  happiness.  .  .  .  Up  through 
the  streets  of  the  Capital,  they  made  their  way.  Case 
ments  were  open  to  the  night  and  the  sea,  but  the 
people  were  dulled  with  grief.  Martinique  had  lost  her 
first  born,  and  Fort  de  France,  the  gentle  sister  of  Saint 
Pierre,  was  bowed  with  the  spirit  of  weeping.  They 
had  loved  and  leaned  on  each  other,  this  boy  and  girl 
of  the  Mother  Island. 

Through  the  silent  crowds,  Charter  and  Paula  walked, 
a  part  of  the  silence,  passing  the  groves  and  towers, 
where  the  laws  of  France  are  born  again  for  the  little 
aliens;  treading  streets  of  darkness  and  moaning.  A 
field  of  fire-lights  shone  ahead — red  glow  shining  upon 
new  canvas.  This  was  the  little  colony  of  Father  Fon- 
tanel,  sustained  by  his  American  friend, — brands  plucked 
from  the  burning  of  Saint  Pierre.  They  passed  the 
edge  of  the  bivouac.  A  woman  sat  nursing  her  babe, 
fire-light  upon  her  face  and  breast,  drowsy  little  ones 
about  her.  Coffee  and  night-air  and  quavering  lullabies ; 
above  all,  ardent  Josephine  in  marble,  smiling  and  dream 
ing  of  Europe  among  the  stars.  ...  It  was  a  powerful 
moment  to  Quentin  Charter.  Great  joy  and  thrilling 
tragedy  breathed  upon  his  heart.  He  saw  a  tear  upon 
Paula's  cheek,  and  heard  the  low  voice  of  Father  Fon- 
tanel — like  an  echo  across  a  stream.  He  saw  them  and 
hastened  forward,  more  than  white  in  the  radiance. 

"  It  is  the  moment  of  ten  thousand  years !  "  he  ex 
claimed,  grasping  their  hands. 

Paula  started,  and  turned  to  Charter  whose  gaze 
sank  into  her  brain.  .  .  .  And  so  it  came  about  un 
expectedly;  in  the  firelight  among  the  priest's  beloved, 


Hearts  Resurgent  341 

under  the  Seven  Palms  and  the  ardent  mystic  smile  of 
the  Empress.  .  .  . 

Go  thy  way,  eat  thy  bread  with  joy,  and  drink  thy, 
wine  with  a  merry  heart;  for  God  hath  already  accepted 
thy  works.  .  .  .  Let  thy  garments  be  always  white;  and 
let  not  thy  head  lack  ointment.  Live  joyfully  with  the 
wife  whom  thou  lovest,  all  the  days  of  thy  life. 

The  words  rang  in  their  ears,  when  they  were  alone 
in  the  city's  darkness,  and  the  fire-lights  far  behind. 

On  the  third  day  following,  they  stood  together  on 
the  Morne  d'Orange — the  three.  Father  Fontanel  had 
been  in  feverish  haste  to  gaze  once  more  upon  his  city; 
while  Charter  and  Paula  had  a  mission  among  the  ruins. 
.  .  .  The  Saragossa  was  sitting  for  a  new  complexion 
in  the  harbor  of  Fort  de  France,  so  they  had  been  driven 
over  from  the  Capital,  along  the  old  sea-road.  The 
wind  was  still;  the  sun  shone  through  silent  towers 
of  smoke,  and  it  was  noon.  Sunlight  bathed  the  stripped 
fields  of  cane,  and,  seemingly  inseparable  from  the  still 
ness,  brooded  upon  the  blue  Caribbean.  The  wreck  of 
the  old  plantation-house  was  hunched  closer  to  the 
ground. 

They  left  Father  Fontanel  in  the  carriage,  and  ap 
proached  the  cistern.  Charter  halted  suddenly  at  the 
edge  of  the  stricken  lianas,  grasping  Paula's  arm.  The 
well-curbing  was  broken  away,  and  the  earth,  for  yards 
surrounding,  had  caved  into  the  vault.  They  stood  there 
without  speaking  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  then  he  led 
her  back  to  the  carriage.  .  .  .  Father  Fontanel  did  not 
seem  aware  of  their  coming  or  going,  but  smiled  when 


342  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

they  spoke.  His  eyes,  charmed  with  sunlight,  were  lost 
oversea. 

At  last  they  stood,  the  priest  between  them,  at  the 
very  edge  of  the  Morne  overlooking  the  shadowed  Rue 
Victor  Hugo — a  collapsed  artery  of  the  whited  sepulchre. 
.  .  .  The  priest  caught  his  breath;  his  hands  lifted 
from  their  shoulders  and  stretched  out  over  the 
necropolis.  His  face  was  upraised. 

"  God,  love  the  World !  "  he  breathed,  and  the  flesh 
sank  from  him.  .  .  .  Much  death  had  dulled  their 
emotions,  but  this  was  translation.  For  an  instant  they 
were  lifted,  exalted,  as  by  the  rushing  winds  of  a  chariot. 

They  did  not  enter  the  city  that  day,  but  came  again, 
the  fourth  day  after  the  cataclysm.  Out  of  the  heat 
from  the  prone  city,  arose  a  forbidding  breath,  so  that 
Paula  was  prevailed  upon  to  stay  behind  on  the  Morne. 
.  .  .  Sickened  and  terrified  by  the  actualities,  dreadful 
beyond  any  imaging,  Charter  made  his  way  up  the 
cluttered  road  into  Rue  Rivoli.  Saint  Pierre,  a  smoky 
pestilential  charnel,  was  only  alive  now  through  the 
lamentations  of  those  who  had  come  down  from  the 
hills  for  their  dead. 

The  wine-shop  had  partly  fallen  in  front.  The  stone- 
arch  remained,  but  the  wooden-door  had  been  levelled 
and  was  partially  devoured  by  fire.  A  breath  of  cool 
ness  still  lingered  in  the  dark  place,  and  the  fruity  odor 
of  spilled  wine  mingled  revoltingly  with  the  heaviness 
of  death.  The  ash-covered  floor  was  packed  hard,  and 
still  wet  from  the  gusts  of  rain  that  had  swept  in  through 
the  open  door  and  the  broken-backed  roof;  stained, 


Hearts  Resurgent  343 

too,  from  the  leakage  of  the  casks.  Charter's  boot 
touched  an  empty'  bottle,  and  it  wheeled  and  careened 
across  the  stones — until  he  thought  it  would  never  stop. 
.  .  .  Steady  as  a  ticking  clock,  came  the  "  drip-drip  " 
of  liquor,  escaping  through  a  sprung  seam  from  some 
where  among  the  merciful  shadows,  where  the  old 
soldier  of  France  had  fallen  from  his  chair. 

He  climbed  over  the  heap  of  stones,  which  had  been 
the  rear-door,  and  entered  the  little  court  from  which 
the  song-birds  had  flown.  Across  the  drifts  of  ash,  he 
forced  his  steps — into  the  semi-dark  of  the  living-room 
behind. 

The  great  head  that  he  had  come  to  find,  was  rigidly 
erect,  as  if  the  muscles  were  locked,  and  faced  the 
aperture  through  which  he  had  entered.  It  seemed  to 
be  done  in  iron,  and  was  covered  with  white  dust — 
Pelee's  dust,  fresh-wrought  from  the  fire  in  which  the 
stars  were  forged.  The  first  impression  was  that  of 
calm,  but  Charter's  soul  chilled  with  terror,  before  his 
eyes  fathomed  the  reality  of  that  look.  Under  the  thick 
dust,  there  suddenly  appeared  upon  the  features,  as  if 
invisible  demons  tugged  at  the  muscles  with  hideous 
art,  a  reflection  from  the  depths.  .  .  .  Bellingham  was 
sitting  beside  a  table.  He  had  seen  Death  in  the  open 
door.  The  colossal  energies  of  his  life  had  risen  to 
vanquish  the  Foe,  yet  again.  His  mind  had  realized 
their  failure,  and  what  failure  meant,  before  the  End. 
Out  of  the  havoc  of  nether-planes,  where  Abominations 
are  born,  had  come  a  last  call  for  him.  That  glimpse 
of  hell  was  mirrored  in  the  staring  dustless  eyes.  .  .  . 
Around  his  shoulders,  like  a  golden  vine,  and  lying 


344  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

across  his  knees,  clung  the  trophy  of  defeat — Soronia. 
Denied  the  lily — he  had  taken  the  tiger-lily.  .  .  .  Under 
the  unset  stones  of  the  floor,  a  lizard  croaked. 

Charter,  who  had  fallen  of  old  into  the  Caverns  of 
Devouring,  backed  out  into  the  court  of  the  song-birds, 
in  agony  for  clean  light,  for  he  had  seen  old  hells  again, 
in  the  luminous  decay  of  those  staring  eyes.  .  .  .  He 
recalled  the  end  of  Father  Fontanel  and  this — with  rever 
ent  awe,  as  one  on  the  edge  of  the  mystery.  Through 
the  ends  of  these  two,  had  some  essential  balance  of 
power  been  preserved  in  the  world? 


TWENTY-SEVENTH    CHAPTER 

PAULA  AND  CHARTER  JOURNEY  INTO  THE  WEST; 

ONE   HEARS  VOICES,  BUT  NOT  THE  WORDS 

OFTEN,  FROM  RAPTURE'S  ROADWAY 

PETER  STOCK  had  cabled  to  New  York  for  officers 
and  men  to  make  up  a  ship's  company.  The  Saragassa 
was  overhauled,  meanwhile,  in  the  harbor  of  Fort  de 
France,  and  the  owner  expressed  his  intention  of  finish 
ing  his  healing  at  sea.  On  the  same  ship,  which  brought 
his  seamen  from  New  York,  arrived  in  Fort  de  France 
a  corps  of  newspaper  correspondents,  who  were  not  slow 
to  discover  that  in  the  bandaged  capitalist  lay  one  of 
the  great  stories  of  the  eruption  from  the  American 
point  of  view.  This  literally  unseated  Peter  Stock  from 
his  chair  on  the  veranda  of  the  hotel  at  the  Capital. 
With  his  guests,  he  put  to  sea  within  thirty-six  hours 
after  the  arrival  of  the  steamer  from  New  York ;  indeed, 
before  the  Saragassa's  paint  was  dry.  His  vitality  was 
not  abated,  but  the  great  figures  of  Pelee  and  Fontanel, 
enriched  by  M.  Mondet  as  a  sort  of  clown-attendant, 
had  strangely  softened  and  strengthened  this  rarely- 
flavored  personality.  As  for  his  two  guests,  that  month 
of  voyaging  in  the  Caribbean  and  below,  is  particularly 
their  own.  The  three  were  on  deck  as  the  Saragassa 
plied  past  Saint  Pierre,  five  or  six  miles  deep  in  the 
roadstead,  a  last  time.  The  brute,  Pelee,  lay  asleep  in 
the  sun  before  the  gate  of  the  whited  sepulchre. 

"  Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  my  last  interview  with 
M.  Mondet  ?  "  Peter  Stock  inquired. 

345 


346  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

Charter  had  witnessed  it,  on  his  way  to  the  craters 
that  morning,  but  he  did  not  say  so,  and  was  regaled 
with  the  story.  "  Bear  witness,"  Peter  Stock  finished, 
pointing  toward  the  city,  "  that  I  forgive  M1.  Mondet. 
Doubtless  he  was  writing  a  paragraph  on  the  staunch 
ness  of  Pelee — when  his  desk  was  closed  for  him." 

They  reached  New  York  the  first  week  in  July.  No 
sooner  had  Peter  Stock  berthed  the  Saragassa  and 
breathed  the  big  city,  than  he  discovered  how  dearly  he 
loved  Pittsburg.  .  .  ;.  Paula  went  alone  to  the  little 
apartment  Top-side  o'  Park,  where  Madame  Nestor 
absolved  her  strong  young  queen;  alone  also  first  to 
The  States,  though  there  was  a  table  set  for  four  over 
in  Staten  Island  the  following  day.  .  .  . 

Charter  and  Reifferscheid  regarded  each  other  a  trifle 
nervously  in  the  latter's  office,  before  they  left  for  the 
ferry.  Each,  however,  found  in  the  eyes  of  the  other 
a  sudden  grip  on  finer  matters  than  obvious  explanations, 
so  that  no  adjustment  of  past  affairs  was  required.  To 
Charter,  this  moment  of  meeting  with  the  editor  became 
a  singularly  bright  memory,  like  certain  moments  with 
Father  Fontanel.  Reifferscheid  had  put  away  all  the 
flowerings  of  romance,  and  could  not  know  that  their 
imperishable  lustre  was  in  his  eyes — for  the  deeper- 
seeing  eyes  of  the  woman.  He  was  big  enough  to  praise 
her  happiness,  big  enough  to  burst  into  singing.  It  had 
been  a  hard  moment  for  her,  but  he  sprang  high  among 
the  nobilities  of  her  heart,  and  was  sustained.  .  .  . 
What  if  it  were  just  a  throat-singing?  There  was  no 
discordant  note.  These  are  the  men  and  the  moments 


Rapture's  Roadway  347 

to  clinch  one's  faith  in  the  Great  Good  that  Drives 
the  World. 

Selma  Cross  had  left  the  Zoroaster,  and,  with  Stephen 
Cabot,  was  happily  on  the  wing,  between  the  city,  shores 
and  mountains.  The  Thing  was  to  open  again  in  Sep 
tember  at  the  Herriot,  and  the  initial  venture  into  the 
(West  was  over.  Had  she  wished,  Paula  was  not  given 
a  chance  to  do  without  the  old  friendship.  .  .  .  The 
story  of  taking  the  Company  down  into  Kentucky  from 
Cincinnati  and  fulfilling  the  old  promise  to  Calhoun  Knox 
proved  rare  listening: 

"  I  won't  soon  forget  that  night  in  Cincinnati,  when 
I  parted  from  Stephen  Cabot,"  she  said,  falling  with  the 
same  old  readiness  into  her  disclosures.  " '  Stephen,'  I 
told  him,  '  I  am  taking  the  Company  down  into  Danube 
to  play  to-morrow  night  in  my  home.  I  don't  want  you 
to  go.'  ...  I  had  seen  the  real  man  shine  out  through 
physical  pain  many  times.  It  was  so  now,  and  he  looked 
the  master  in  the  deeper  hurt.  He's  a  self-fighter — the 
champion.  He  asked  me  if  I  meant  to  stay  long,  as  I 
took  his  cool,  slim  hand.  I  told  him  that  I  hoped  not, 
but  if  it  transpired  that  I  must  stay  for  a  while,  I  should 
come  back  to  Cincinnati — for  one  day — to  tell  him.  .  .  . 
I  saw  he  was  the  stronger.  I  was  all  woman  that 
moment,  all  human,  wanting  nothing  that  crowds  or  art 
could  give.  I  think  my  talk  became  a  little  flighty,  as 
I  watched  his  face,  so  brave  and  so  white. 

"  I  knew  his  heart,  knew  that  his  thoughts  that 
moment  would  have  burned  to  the  brute  husk,  coarser 
stuff  than  he  was  made  of.  ...  Here's  a  Stephen  who 
could  smile  up  from  the  ground  as — as  they  stoned. 


348  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

...  So  I  left  him,  standing  by  the  window,  in  the 
upper-room  of  the  hotel,  watching  the  moving  river- 
lights  down  on  the  Ohio. 

"  Late  the  next  afternoon  I  reached  Danube,  and 
was  driven  directly  to  the  theatre — which  was  new. 
There  was  a  pang  in  this.  The  town  seemed  just  the 
same;  the  streets  and  buildings,  the  sounds  and  smells, 
even  the  sunset  patch  at  the  head  of  Main  Street — all 
were  just  as  they  should  be,  except  the  theatre.  You 
see,  all  the  dreams  of  greatness  of  that  savage,  homely 
girl,  had  found  their  source  and  culmination  in  the  old 
house  of  melodrama,  parts  of  which,  they  told  me,  now 
were  made  over  into  darkey  shanties  down  by  the  river. 
I  felt  that  my  success  was  qualified  a  little  in  that  it 
had  not  come  in  the  life  of  the  old  house. 

"  I  joined  the  Company  at  the  theatre,  without  seeing 
any  of  the  Danube  folk.  The  audience  was  already 
gathering.  Through  an  eyelet  of  the  curtain,  I  saw 
Calhoun  Knox  enter  alone,  and  take  a  seat  in  the  centre, 
five  rows  from  the  orchestra.  He  seemed  smaller.  The 
good  brown  tan  was  gone.  There  was  a  twitch  about 
his  mouth  that  twitched  mine.  Other  faces  were  the 
same — even  the  lips  that  had  spoken  my  doom  so  long 
ago.  I  had  no  hate  for  them  now.  .  .  . 

"  I  looked  at  Calhoun  Knox  again,  looked  for  the 
charm  of  clean  simplicity,  and  kept  putting  Stephen 
Cabot  out  of  my  heart  and  brain.  .  .  .  This  man  be 
fore  me  had  fought  for  me  twice,  when  I  had  needed 
a  champion.  .  .  .  They  pulled  me  away  from  the  eyelet, 
and  The  Thing  was  on. 

"  I   could  feel  the  town's   group-soul   that  night — 


Rapture's  Roadway  349 

responded  to  its  every  thought,  as  if  a  nerve-system  of 
my  own  was  installed  in  every  mind.  They  were  listen 
ing  to  the  woman  who  had  startled  New  York.  I  felt 
their  awe.  It  was  not  sweet,  as  I  had  dreamed  the 
moment  would  be.  After  all,  these  were  my  people. 
I  wanted  their  love,  not  their  adulation.  There  had 
been  nights  back  in  the  East,  when  I  had  felt  my 
audience,  and  turned  loose  The  Thing  with  utmost  dar 
ing,  knowing  that  enough  of  the  throng  could  follow 
me.  But  this  night  I  played  slowly,  played  down,  so 
that  all  could  get  it.  This  was  not  a  concession  to  the 
public,  but  a  reconciliation.  And  at  the  last,  I  moved 
and  spoke  pityingly,  lest  I  hurt  them;  played  to  the 
working  face  of  Calhoun  Knox  with  all  its  limitations 
— as  you  would  tell  a  story  to  a  child,  and  hasten  the 
happy  ending  to  steady  the  quivering  lip.  .  .  .  And  then 
it  came  to  me  slowly,  after  the  last  curtain  had  fallen, 
that  Danube  was  calling  for  its  own,  and  I  stepped  out 
from  behind. 

"  '  Once  in  the  days  of  tumult  and  misunderstanding,' 
I  told  them,  '  I  was  angry  because  you  did  not  love  me. 
Now  I  know  that  I  was  not  lovable.  And  now  I  feel 
your  goodness  and  your  forgiveness.  I  pray  you  not 
to  thank  me  any  more,  lest  I  break  down  under  too  much 
joy.'  .  .  .  Then  I  went  down  among  them.  A  woman 
kissed  me,  but  the  moment  was  so  big  and  my  eyes  so 
clouded  that  I  did  not  remember  the  face.  .  .  .  Presently 
the  real  consciousness  came.  Danube  had  dropped  back 
to  the  doors.  My  hand  was  in  the  hand  of  Calhoun 
Knox. 

"  Far  out  the  Lone  Ridge  pike,  we  walked,  to  the 


350  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

foot  of  the  Knobs.  I  was  breathing  the  smell  of  my 
old  mountains.  You  can  rely,  that  I  had  kept  my  voice 
bright.  '  I  have  come  back  to  you,  Calhoun,'  I  said. 

" '  I  shouldn't  be  here,'  he  stammered  in  real  panic. 
'  You  didn't  write,  and  I  married ' 

"  I  could  have  hugged  him  in  a  way  that  would  not 
have  disturbed  his  wife,  but  I  said  reproachfully,  '  And 
you  let  me  come  'way  out  here  alone  with  you,  wicked 
Married  Man  ?  '  .  .  .1  started  back  for  town,  and  then 
thought  better  of  it — waited  for  him  to  come  up,  and 
took  his  hand. 

"  '  Calhoun/  I  said,  *  I  found  you  a  solid  friend  when 
I  needed  one  pitifully.  Selma  Cross  never  forgets.  You 
have  always  been  my  Kentucky  Gentleman.  God  bless 
your  big  bright  heart.  I  wish  you  kingly  happiness ! ' 

"  And  then  I  did  rush  back.  We  separated  at  the 
edge  of  the  town.  I  wanted  to  run  and  cry  aloud.  The 
joy  was  so  new  and  so  vast  that  I  could  scarcely  hold  it. 
Miles  away,  I  heard  the  night-train  whistle.  My  baggage 
was  at  the  hotel,  but  I  didn't  care  for  that,  and  reached 
the  depot-platform  in  time.  The  Company  was  there, 
but  they  had  reserved  a  Pullman.  I  went  Into  the  day- 
coach,  because  I  wanted  to  be  alone — sat  rigidly  in  the 
thin-backed  seat.  There  were  snoring,  sprawling  folks 
on  every  hand.  .  .  .  After  a  long  time,  some  one  stirred 
in  his  seat  and  muttered,  *  High  Bridge.'  The  brake- 
man  came  through  at  age-long  intervals,  calling  stations 
that  had  once  seemed  to  me  the  far  country.  Then 
across  the  aisle,  a  babe  awoke  and  wailed.  The  mother 
had  others — a  sweet  sort  of  woman  sick  with  weariness. 
I  took  the  little  one,  and  it  liked  the  fresh  arms  and  fell 


Rapture's  Roadway  351 

asleep.  It  fitted  right  in — the  soft  helpless  warm  little 
thing — and  felt  good  to  me.  Dawn  dimmed  the  old 
meadows  before  I  gave  it  up  to  be  fed — and  begged  it 
back  again. 

"  And  then  Cincinnati  from  the  river — brown  river 
below  and  brown  smoke-clouds  above.  It  seemed  as 
if  I  had  been  gone  ages,  instead  of  only  since  yesterday. 
Unhampered  by  baggage,  I  sped  out  of  the  day-coach, 
far  ahead  of  the  Company  in  the  Pullman,  but  the 
carriage  to  the  hotel  was  insufferably  slow ;  the  elevator 
dragged.  ...  It  was  only  eight  in  the  morning,  but  I 
knew  his  ways — how  little  he  slept.  .  .  .  His  door  was 
partly  open,  and  I  heard  the  crinkle  of  his  paper,  as  he 
answered  my  tap. 

"  Aren't  you  pretty  near  ready  for  breakfast, 
Stephen  ? '  I  asked.  .  .  .  He  stood  in  the  door-way — 
his  head  just  to  my  breast.  His  face  was  hallowed, 
but  his  body  seemed  to  weaken.  I  crossed  the  threshold 
to  help  him,  and  we — we're  to  be  married  before  the 
new  season  opens." 

Paula  loved  the  story. 

And  at  length  Paula  and  Charter  reached  the  house 
of  his  mother,  whose  glory  was  about  her,  as  she  stood 
in  the  door-way.  Before  he  kissed  her,  the  mother-eyes 
had  searched  his  heart.  .  .  .  Then  she  turned  to  his 
garland  of  victory. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  have  brought  me  a  daughter." 

The  women  faced  each  other — the  strangest  moment 

in  three  lives.    .    .    .   All  the  ages  passed  between  the 

eyes  of  the  maid  and  the  mother;    and  wisdoms  finer 


352  She  Buildeth  Her  House 

than  words,  as  when  two  suns,  sweeping  past  in  their 
great  cycle,  shine  across  the  darkness  of  the  infinite 
deep ;  ages  of  gleaning,  adoring,  suffering,  bearing,  pray 
ing;  ages  of  listening  to  little  children  and  building 
dreams  out  of  pain ;  the  weathered  lustre  of  Naomi  and 
the  fresh  radiance  of  Ruth;  but  over  all,  that  look 
which  passed  between  the  women  shone  the  secret  of 
the  meaning  of  men — God-taught  Motherhood. 

To  Charter,  standing  afar-off,  came  the  simple  but 
tremendous  revelation,  just  a  glimpse  into  that  lovely 
arcanum  which  mere  man  may  never  know  in  full.  .  .  . 
He  saw  that  these  two  were  closer  than  prophets  to 
the  Lifting  Heart  of  Things;  that  such  are  the  hand 
maidens  of  the  Spirit,  to  whom  are  intrusted  God's 
avatars;  that  no  prophet  is  greater  than  his  mother. 

To  the  man,  it  was  new  as  the  dream  which  nestled 
in  Paula's  heart ;  to  the  women,  it  was  old  as  the  flocks 
on  the  mountain-sides  of  Lebanon.  They  turned  to  him 
smiling.  And  when  he  could  speak,  he  said  to  Paula: 

"  I  thought  you  would  like  to  see  the  garret,  and 
the  window  that  faces  the  East." 


THE  END 


The  Novelist  with  "A  New  Formula  " 

Will  Levington  Comfort 

Author  of  "  She  Buildeth  Her  Htuse"  and 
"Rout ledge  Rides  Alone"  (Eight  Editions} 


WELL-KNOWN  as  one  of  the  most  successful  short-story  con 
tributors  to  American  magazines,  Will  Levington  Comfort 
awoke  one  morning  a  little  over  a  year  ago  to  6nd  himself 
famous  as  a  long-story  writer.  Seldom  has  the  first  novel  of  an  author 
been  accorded  the  very  essence  of  praise  from  the  conservative  critics  as 
was  Mr.  Comfort's  "  Routledge  Rides  Alone,"  acknowledged  to  be  the 
best  book  of  1910. 

While  young  in  years,  Mr.  Comfort,  who  is  thirty-three,  is  old  in 
experience.  In  1898  he  enlisted  in  the  Fifth  United  States  Cavalry, 
and  saw  Cuban  service  in  the  Spanish-American  War.  The  following 
year  he  rode  as  a  war  correspondent  in  the  Philippines  a  rise  which  re 
sulted  from  vivid  letters  written  to  newspapers  from  the  battlefields  and 
prisons. 

Stricken  with  fever,  wearied  of  service  and  thinking  of  Home,  he 
was  next  ordered  by  cable  up  into  China  to  watch  the  lid  lifted  from  the 
Legations  at  Peking.  Here  he  saw  General  Liscum  killed  on  the  Tien 
tsin  Wall  and  got  his  earliest  glance  of  the  Japanese  in  war.  Another 
attack  of  fever  completely  prostrated  him  and  he  was  sent  home  on  the 
hospital  ship  "Relief." 

In  the  interval  between  the  Boxer  Uprising  and  the  Russo- 
Japanese  War,  Mr.  Comfort  began  to  dwell  upon  the  great  funda 
mental  facts  of  world-politics.  But  the  call  of  smoke  and  battle  was 
too  strong,  and,  securing  a  berth  as  war-correspondent  for  a  leading 
midwestern  newspaper,  he  returned  to  the  far  East  and  the  scenes  of  the 
Russo-Japanese  conflict  in  1904.  He  was  present  at  the  battle  of 
Liaoyang  his  description  of  which  in  "  Routledge  Rides  Alone "  fairly 
overwhelms  the  reader. 

Few  novels  of  recent  years  have  aroused  the  same  enthusiasm 
as  was  evoked  by  this  story  of  "Routledge."  Book  reviewers  both 
in  this  country  and  in  Europe  have  suggested  that  the  book  should 
win  for  its  author  the  Peace  prize  because  it  is  one  of  the  greatest 
and  most  effective  arguments  against  warfare  that  has  ever  been 
presented. 


J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  PHILADELPHIA 


ROUTLEDGE  RIDES  ALONE 


Y  candidate  for  the  next  Nobel 
peace,  prize  would  be  Will  Ley- 
mgton  Comfort's  ardent,  anti 
war  novel,  '  Routledge  Rides 
Alone.' 

"  It  is  a  big  book  and  a  strong 
book.  It  is  alive  with  feeling ; 
it  is  charged  with  purpose.  Yet 
the  ethics  run  through  romance 
in  terms  of  action  and  reaction, 
and  the  message  is  infused  into 
the  pages  with  so  fine  an  art  that 
the  fuel  of  it  is  transformed  into 
sheer  white  flame,  leaving  only 
an  impression  as  of  some  fiery 
writing  on  the  wall  proclaiming  to  all  men  the  horrors  of  war. 
"  Here  is  a  novel  splendid  in  action,  rich  in  description,  a 
story  that  ranges  from  the  London  streets  and  drawing-rooms 
to  the  famine-fields  and  battle-fields  of  India  and  Manchuria 
and  that  catches  into  the  fortunes  of  war  the  varying  fortunes 
of  a  tender  and  fervent  love  interest. 

"  This  story  is  largely  planned  and  nobly  executed,  a  story 
that  discusses  far-reaching  problems  of  duty  and  devotion, 
and  that  especially  brings  home  the  misery  of  India,  a  nation 
slowly  starving  off  the  earth  because  the  trend  of  centuries 
has  fastened  her  interest  in  the  affairs  of  eternity,  so  that  she 
cannot  get  the  tempo,  cannot  fit  into  the  lock-step,  of  our 
modern  competitive  civilization. 

"  Mr.  Comfort  (himself  a  war  correspondent  with  a  goodly 
record)  writes  out  of  sharp-cut  experience,  and  with  a  tremen 
dous  conviction  of  the  enormity  of  the  wrongs  of  the  battle-field 
and  its  long  train  of  consequences.  He  brings  out  keenly  the 
brutality  and  the  banality  behind  the  spectacular  processional 
of  war  that  has  long  flared  its  false  and  foolish  bluster  before 
the  unthinking  eyes  of  the  world. 

"As  the  white  scimitar  of  compressed  mountain  waters  is 
hurled  by  the  hydraulic  miner  against  the  Sierra  hillsides, 
tearing  away  the  earth  to  release  the  hidden  gold,  so  again 
and  again  Will  Levington  Comfort  masses  and  hurls  his 
force  against  the  monstrosity  of  war,  tearing  away  the  blows 
and  shams  to  reveal  the  grim  truth  hidden  under  this  human 
carnage  we  glory  in. 

"  The  story  holds  its  high  level  to  the  end.  The  insight  is 
penetrant,  poignant,  persuasive.  The  evocation  of  character 
shows  commanding  creative  power,  each  war  correspondent 
is  individual,  recognizable,  and  there  is  a  strange  figure  in 
the  background —  the  strongest  man,'  the  Samaritan,  and 
mystic — a  figure  that  would  alone  have  made  the  story 
notable. 

"  Mr.  Comfort's  style  is  far  out  of  the  usual.  He  sees  life 
under  the  form  of  movement,  of  drama.  He  compels  words 
as  vassals  to  his  use  ;  he  levies  on  literature,  science,  art,  to 


Edwin  Markham 
in  New  York 
American, 
Chicago 
Examiner, 
San  Francisco 
Examiner, 
Los  Angeles 
Examiner 


ROUTLEDGE  RIDES  ALONE 


Edwin  Markham   furnish  phase  and  figure  to  express  the  meaning  of  the  mov- 
in  Hew  York   inS  pageant  of  existence.     I  quote  a  chance  paragraph: 

American  '  The  moment  was  exalted.    Something  vaster,  nobler 

gi-'  than  mere  human  consciousness  expanded  within  Routledge. 
"...  He  saw  the  pitiful  pawns  thronging  to  fill  the  legions 
of  Caesar,  who  stooped  to  learn  the  names  of  certain  of  his 
centurions.  He  saw  that  black  plague,  Napoleon,  and  the 
regiments  herding  for  slaughter  under  his  glaring,  spike- 
pointed  eye;  great  masses  of  God-loved  men  vying  to  die 
swiftly  at  a  word  from  that  iron-trimmed  cavern  of  desolation, 
Napoleon's  mouth— the  mouth  which  deigned  to  utter  from 
time  to  time  the  names  of  chiefs  he  counted  upon  presently  to 
murder.  Caesar  and  Napoleon,  incarnates  of  devilish  ambi 
tion,  mastodons  of  licensed  crime,  towering  epileptics  both.'" 

The  "  There  are  a  few  novels  which,  in  addition  to  fulfilling  their 
Woman's  Era  function  of  entertainment,  are  written  to  call  attention  to  some 
great  work  or  movement  that  ultimately  will  mean  the  better 
ment  of  humanity.  Their  sentences,  vibrant  with  great 
thoughts  and  deep  truths,  start  up  from  the  pages  like  the 
handwriting  upon  the  wall,  and  indelibly  impress  themselves 
upon  the  mind  of  the  reader.  Such  a  novel  is  '  Routledge 
Rides  Alone,'  by  Will  Levington  Comfort.  .  .  .  The  vivid 
word-paintings  of  famine  and  war  remind  one  of  Kipling;  only 
Mr.  Comfort's  work  displays  a  finish  and  absence  of  crudity, 
even  in  descriptions  of  the  most  sordid  and  horrible  events, 
never  attained  by  this  English  writer.  .  .  .  The  great  cause 
to  which  the  book  is  dedicated  is  Universal  Peace.  While  the 
novel  is  a  veritable  panorama  of  war,  yet  the  subject-matter  is 
dealt  with  in  such  a  way  as  to  strip  war  of  all  its  glory,  its  gold 
lace,  and  carnival  visage,  leaving  only  a  naked  reality  of 
cruelty,  horror,  and  death  terrible  to  contemplate  .... 
'  Routledge  Rides  Alone '  is  a  powerful  plea  for  peace,  and  its 
author  takes  his  stand  not  for  political  or  religious  reasons,  but 
simply  from  a  humane  viewpoint,  pleading  for  that  ideal  to 
ward  which  humanity  is  beginning  to  mount — and  which  is  by 
no  means  so  unattainable  and  impracticable  as  some  would 
have  us  believe — the  Brotherhood  of  Man." 


G.  A.  Lyon,  Jr.,       "Along  its  swift-moving  course  the  story,  in  effect,  eloquently 
in  Washington    arraigns  war  as  a  brutish  human  episode,  the  tool  of  national 
Star   selfishness  and  duplicity.     In  effect,  too,  it  makes  an  intimate 
and  masterly  contrast  of  races  and  nations,  the  west  against 
the  east,  the  new  against  the  old,  aggression  against  submis 
sion,  materialism  against  spirituality.     The  tale  is  near  to  a 
wonder  of  clean  and  expert  workmanship.     Over  and  above 
this  it  is  a  creation,  a  creature  of  blood  and  marrow,  of  flesh 
and  spirit,  all  soaked  in  their  own  fluids,  the  whole  breathing 
out  the  breath  of  life,  vivid,  powerful,  personal." 


ROUTLEDGE  RIDES  ALONE 


"  The  prophecy  of  those  who  hare  watched  with  intimate 
sympathy  and  ..nthusiasm  for  his  growing  genius,  the  coming 
of  Will  Levington  Comfort's  great  ten-year  book  has  been 
fulfilled. 

"  '  Routledge  Rides  Alone '  is  great  in  conception,  great  in 
execution,  a  vital  story  that  towers  giant-high — a  book  with 
a  message  for  all  mankind. 

"  It  is  best  said  of  his  work  as  the  author  himself  described 
the ''work  of  Routledge,  '  He  could  crawl  into  the  soldier's 
brain  and  watch  the  machinery  falter  in  full  blast  and  break 
down.  Always  you  felt  as  you  read  him  that  he  had  a  great 
pity  for  the  ranker  and  a  great  hate  for  the  system  that  used 
him.' 

"  Comfort's  first  purpose,  the  burning  zeal  behind  his  lines, 
is  to  make  men  see  that  war  is  a  hang-over  from  the  days 
when  men  ate  their  flesh  hot  from  the  kill,  not  from  the  fire. 
This  is  his  avowed  and  wonderfully  executed  aim,  '  to  paint 
war  so  red,  so  real,  in  all  its  ghastly  abortive  reality  that  the 
nations  shall  shudder — as  at  the  towering  crime  on  Calvary — 
shudder  to  the  quick  of  their  souls  and  sin  no  more.' 

' '  War  is  immense  and  final,'  he  writes,  '  for  the  big  devil- 
clutched  souls  who  make  it — an  achievement,  indeed,  to 
gather  and  energize  and  hurl  this  great  force  against  an  enemy 
—but  what  a  rotten  imposition  upon  the  poor  little  obscure 
men  who  fight,  not  a  tithe  the  richer  if  they  take  all  Asia ! ' 

"'Oh,  God,'  cries  Routledge,  'tell  us  why  the  many  are 
consumed  to  ashes  at  the  pleasure  of  the  few  ! ' 

"  The  useless  horror,  the  ludicrous  aspect  of  war,  is  marvel- 
ously  brought  out  in  a  passage  that  should  be  enduring  in 
literature.  Routledge  comes  across  a  dying  Japanese  soldier, 
dying  with  a  smile  and  a  word  of  salute  to  his  emperor.  '  He 
has  no  such  mouth  as  yours,  little  sergeant,'  he  says,  con 
trasting,  in  bitterness  at  the  injustice  of  it  all,  the  little  soldier 
before  him  with  the  monarch  he  serves.  '  His  head  is  not  so 
good  as  yours.  He  was  dazed  with  champagne  as  you  never 
have  been.  He  had  the  look  of  an  epileptic  and  they  had  to 
bring  him  a  red-blooded  woman  of  the  people  to  get  a  son 
from  him — and  that  son  a  defective  !  A  soft,  inbred  pulp  of  a 
man  without  strength  of  wil)  or  hand  or  brain — such  is  the 
Lord  of  Ten  Thousand  Years  whom  you  die  for  with  a  smile. 
You  are  greater  than  the  Empire  you  serve,  little  sergeant, 
greater  than  the  Emperor  you  die  for — God  pity  you.'  " 


Bertha  V. 
O'Brien 
in 

Detroit 
Free  Press 


"  The  range  of  the  story  is  enormous.     The  whole  sweep  of  Herbert  Caxton 
world-politics  is  involved  in  this  gripping  war-story.     The  jn 
terrible  intensity  of  the  writer  holds  one  chained  to  the  book  ;    rjhicapo  Tribune 
also  the  feeling  that  he  is  speaking  the  truth  as  he  sees  it,  and   v          B 
the  truth  is  first — that  war  is  a  curse,  and  second  that  England 
is  the  crudest  burden  of  all  the  heavy  burdens  that  India  has 
to  bear." 


ROUTLEDGE  RIDES  ALONE 


Amy  C.  Rich  in       "  Few  indeed  of  the  present-day  novels  are  so  pervaded  by 

The   a.  lofty  spiritual  atmosphere;  so  fine  and  impregnated  with 

Twentieth  l'v'n.S  truth  that,  while  following  the  romance,  the  reader  is 

Centurv   sPJritua^y  refreshed,  much  as  the  pilgrim  is  refreshed  by  the 

__  e     ury    wayside  well  in  the  desert  or  by   the  invigorating  air  of 

Magazine    mountains  that  rise  from  sultry  plains.     In  Routledge  Rides 

Alone  we  have  such  a  novel  ....  The  work  is  marked  by  an 

extraordinary  degree  of  philosophic  penetration.     Searching 

and  truth-revealing  facts  in  regard  to  Europe  and  America 

and  Asia  are  sketched  with  the  sure  hand  of  a  master.    The 

children  of  blood,  the  slaves  of  the  dollar,  the  votaries  of 

materialism    and   the    dreamers,    the   oppressors   and    the 

oppressed,  are  all  so  vividly  outlined  as  to  leave  an  indelible 

impress  on  the  thinking  mind.     From  this  it  must  not  b« 

supposed  that  this  book  is  a  religious  homily  or  a  didactic 

essay.     On  the  contrary  it  is  an  absorbing  novel  from  first 

to  last — on  the  whole  one  of  the  best  works  of  fiction  that  has 

appeared  in  months." 

Kansas  City  "  The  climax  of  the  story  is  a  description  of  a  great  battle  in 
Star  t^ie  Russo-Japanese  War  that  fairly  overwhelms  the  reader. 
The  whole  tremendous  struggle  is  witnessed  with  the  thrill  of 
human  sympathy,  almost  of  terror,  that  is  the  unconscious 
tribute  of  the  reader  to  the  power  of  the  writer.  In  Levington 
Comfort's  spirit  there  is  something  of  the  great  life  purpose  of 
the  remarkable  man  and  extraordinary  painter  who  went 
down  in  a  battle-ship  in  that  war,  one  incident  of  which  is  so 
powerfully  portrayed  in  this  book.  Verestschagin's  genius 
was  dedicated  to  the  picturing  of  the  horrors  of  war  and  bond 
age  and  intrenched  power,  to  the  end  that  there  might  be 
such  comprehension  of  them  by  the  mass  of  the  world's  people 
that  an  aroused  human  sentiment  might  end  them.  In 
'  Routledge  Rides  Alone '  Comfort  not  only  pictures  the 
fearful  realities  of  warfare,  but  in  another  manifestation  of  his 
purpose  sets  forth  the  bitterness  of  British  rule  in  India  and 
bids  you  look  upon  Famine  at  arm's  length." 

Jessie  Dunten         "  Beside  the  strength  and  virility,  the  fineness  and  loyalty 
Johnson   °*  ""s  cn.aracters'  Mr.  Comfort  has  written  into  his  story  the 
.     Tii-      •     underlying  thought  and  purpose  of  his  own  life,  which  spells 
in  Illinois   World-peace.    This  novel  should  do  what  Hague  conference 
illustrated   and  peace  convocations  have  not  done,  for  no  novel  in  the 
Review   history  of  literature  has  gone  so  far  toward  enlightening  the 
men  who  feed  the  guns  of  war  as  Routledge  Rides  Alone.   .   . 
The  book  draws  irresistibly  to  this  one  end,  World-Peace. 
One  lives  through  the  chapters  and  sees  the  smoke  of  battles, 
the  frenzy  of  maddened  men,  the  dead,  dying,  and  maimed, 
the  taint  and  desolation  left  behind — one  sees  all  this  in  the 
light  of  a  new  understanding,  war  shorn  of  its  glory,  crim 
soned  with  murder — behind  whose  mask  stands  the  greed  of 
nations." 


ROUTLEDGE  RIDES  ALONE 


in 

Boston  Common 


"  One  feels  the  need  of  a  revised  vocabulary  adequately  to  Ellen  Burns 
describe  a  book  with  such  depth  and  breadth  and  such  fine   Sherman 
spiritual  altitudes  as  are  found  in  this  volume. 

"  Considered  merely  as  a  peace  document,  the  arbitration 
committees  of  the  world  might  well  afford  to  circulate  it  as 
one  of  the  best  expositions  of  the  brutality  of  war  ever  put 
forth.  '  It  seems  hardly  fair,'  writes  the  author,  '  to  use 
grown-ups  like  that — men,  white  men,  with  spines  at  right 
angles  from  the  snake's  and  a  touch  of  eternity  in  their  in- 
sides  somewhere.'  .  .  .  'She  saw  it  all,  the  fire-lit  field 
running  with  the  reddest  blood  of  earth.  And  across  the 
world  she  seemed  to  see  the  faces  of  the  maids  and  mothers 
of  these  boys — faces  straining  toward  them,  all  white  with 
tragedy.'  .  .  .  'And  what  meaning  has  the  change  of 
national  boundaries  to  their  mothers  ?' 

"Here  is  another  inspired  epitome  on  the  famine  conditions 
in  India :  '  It  is  shocking  as  the  bottom  of  the  sea — with  the 
waters  drained  off.  It  is  the  carnal  mystery  of  a  famine.1 

"  The  romance  of  the  story  shares  the  rare  nobility  which 
is  manifestineveryother  conception  developed  by  the  author." 


"  One  of  the  most  important  and  significant  fiction  successes   Mary  Katherine 
of  the  year  has  been  Will  Levington  Comfort's  '  Routledge   Synon 
Rides  Alone.'    The  novel  which  blazed  with  pictures  of  the  jn 
orient  as  vivid  as  Kipling's,  and  which  outclassed  Kipling  in   Cbicago 
its  splendid  depiction  of  warfa^s  and  the  life  of  a  war  cprre-    TourJii 
spondent,  was  from  the  day  of  its  publication  'a  critic's   journal 
book.'      Few  novels  of  recent  years  have  aroused  the  same 
enthusiasm  as  was  evoked  by  this  story  of  Routledge.     Book 
reviewers  both  in  this  country  and  in  Europe  have  suggested 
that  the  book  should  win  for  its  author  the  Nobel  prize  because 
of  the  fact  that  the  novel  is  one  of  the  greatest  and  most  effec 
tive  arguments  against  warfare  that  has  ever  been  presented." 

"  The  book  is  a  strong  human  protest  against  war,  and   Chicago 
Routledge,  though  accustomed  to  scenes  of  barbaric  strife,  is   Examiner 
the  eloquent  advocate  of  peace." 

"  The  book  leaves  you  with  an  impression  stronger  than   The 
the  tale,  of  impending  crises  in  India,  due  to  England's  com-   World  To-day 
mercial  greed  and  exploitation.    The  work  is  crowded  with 
brilliant  passages." 

"  The  whole  tale  is  strong  and  purposeful,  and  will  find  its   Christian  Science 
place  on  the  peace  side  in  the  struggle  of  humanity  to  rid  it-   Monitor 
self  of  the  specter,  War." 

"  A  tremendous  amount  of  work  must  have  been  put  into   Edwin  L. 
Will  Levington  Comfort's  fine  novel.    The  author  is  evidently   Shuman 
an  intense  believer  in  the  brotherhood  of  man.     Those  who  : 
grasp  the  lesson  the  book  teaches  will  never  forget  it.    It  is  a  Jr 
terrible  indictment  of  England's  way  with  India  and  Ireland." 


ROUTLEDGE  RIDES  ALONE 


Chas. D.Cameron         "The  book  flashes  and  thunders  with  the  action  of  the 

in    Russo-Japanese  war.    War  rolls  upon  the  reader  with  all  the 

Detroit  Journal   ?urv  °f  ^  multiple  murders.    It  avows  and  proves  that  war 

J  is  cruel,  wicked,  unscrupulous,  pretentious,  futile,  that  the 

true  conquering  courage  is  the  courage  of  the  spirit.    We 

catch  glimpses  of  the  great  lords  of  death  in  the  Manchurian 

Hades,  Kuroki,  Oku,  Nodzu,  Orloff,  Zurubaieff,  Kuropatkin. 

In  single  sentences,  usually,  they  flash  out  before  us  along 

the  fiery  battle  array  or  in  a  cool  distance  behind  the  tide  of 

charging  brigades. 

"  There  seems,  usually,  to  be  an  element  in  these  sentences, 
hard  to  trace  or  define,  a  tone  which  makes  the  Japanese  loom 
up  always  like  the  red  savage  in  the  vestments  of  civilization, 
and  which  throws  a  purple  light  of  mourning  and  regret  over 
the  pale  white  faces  of  the  Slav  leaders.  All  war  tales  well 
told  are  in  a  sense  epic  poetry,  and  epic  poetry  must  possess 
spiritual  elements. 

"  War  according  to  Mr.  Comfort's  viewpoint  is  glowing,  but 
not  glorious.  It  is  brainy,  but  fatuous.  It  is  far-planned,  but 
futile.  It  is  fought  and  endured  in  the  field,  but  all  the  fruits 
come  to  the  desks  of  gouty  politicians  and  a  champagne- 
drunken  Mikado. 

"  The  book  has  great  new  impressions,  strong  leanings  to 
ward  new  points  of  vision.  There  is  the  unveiling  of  a  war 
that  cries  out,  but  not  with  exultation.  There  is  the  picture 
of  an  India  that  sighs,  but  not  in  contemplation  of  Nirvanic 
peace.  We  complete  the  book  with  a  more  vivid  sense  of  the 
problems  that  melt  nations,  of  the  grand  duties  which  states 
men  miss,  of  the  heaviness  of  fetters,  and  also  of  crowns. 

"  The  war  tone  in  the  book  comes  as  a  summons  to  peace, 
an  intercession,  a  plea,  a  demand,  an  argument,  an  appeal, 
against  the  duelling  of  embroiled  nations. 

"  It  is  this  impression  of  the  absurdity,  the  futility,  the 
wickedness  of  so  fierce  a  thing  as  war  being  planned  in  polit 
ical  councils  and  on  treaty  desks,  like  cold-blooded  plots  for 
organized  assassination,  that  Mr.  Comfort  wishes  to  leave." 

Tie  Advocate         "  It  is  a  story  of  war,  told,  however,  by  a  man  who  loves 
of  Peace    peace  and  abominates  battle  and  bloodshed,  and  leaves  you 
at  the  end  with  a  loathing  of  the  slaughter  of  man  by  man." 

J.  O.  G.  Duffy       In  execrating  instead  of  glorifying  war  "  Comfort  has  suc- 
in  Philadelphia    ceeded  where  Kipling  failed.     He  has  written  a  consistently 
Press   dramatic,  vigorous,  and  able  novel  with  a  war  corresponden* 
as  the  hero." 


John  D.  Wells       "Edwin  Markhara  says  '  Routledge  Rides  Alone'  should 
in  Buffalo    have  the  Nobel  Peace  Prize  as  the  greatest  anti-war  novel 
Evening  Hews    ever  written.     We  think  Markham  is  right." 


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